Victor looked down at the patient questionnaire. Symptoms he could give, but details were more dangerous. He slid the paper back across the table without picking up the pen.

The doctor sighed. “Mr. Martin, you paid quite a premium for my services. I suggest you take advantage of them.”

“I paid that premium for privacy.”

Porter shook his head. “Very well,” he said, lacing his fingers. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m not entirely certain,” said Victor. “I’ve been having these episodes.”

“What kind of episodes?”

“Neurological,” he answered, toeing the line between omission and lie. “It starts as a sound, a buzzing in my head. It grows, until I can feel the humming, down to my bones. Like a charge.”

“And then?”

I die, thought Victor.

“I black out,” he said.

The doctor frowned. “How long has this been happening?”

“Five months.”

“Did you suffer any trauma?”

Yes.

“Not that I know of.”

“Changes in lifestyle?”

“No.”

“Any weakness in your limbs?”

“No.”

“Allergies?”

“No.”

“Have you noticed any specific triggers? Migraines can be triggered by caffeine, seizures by light, stress, lack of—”

“I don’t care what caused it,” said Victor, losing patience. “I just need to know what’s happening, and how to fix it.”

The doctor sat forward. “Well, then,” he said. “Let’s run some tests.”

* * *

VICTOR watched the lines chart across the screen, spiking like the tremors before an earthquake. Porter had attached a dozen electrodes to his scalp, and was now studying the EEG alongside him, a crease forming between his brows.

“What is it?” asked Victor.

The doctor shook his head. “This level of activity is abnormal, but the pattern doesn’t suggest epilepsy. See how closely the lines are gathered?” He tapped the screen. “That degree of neural excitation, it’s almost like there’s too much nerve conduction . . . an excess of electrical impulse.”

Victor studied the lines. It could be a trick of the mind, but the lines on the screen seemed to rise and fall with the tone in his skull, the peaks in rhythm growing with the hum under his skin.

Porter cut the program. “I need a more complete picture,” he said, removing the electrodes from Victor’s scalp. “Let’s get you into an MRI.”

The room was bare save for the scanner in the center—a floating table that slid into a tunnel of machinery. Slowly, Victor lay back on the table, his head coming to rest in a shallow brace. A framework slid across his eyes, and Porter fastened it closed, locking Victor in. His heart rate ticked up as, with a mechanical whir, the table moved and the room disappeared, replaced by the too-close ceiling of the machine in front of Victor’s face.

He heard the doctor leave, the click of the door shutting, and then his voice returned, stretched thin by the intercom. “Hold very still.”

For a full minute, nothing happened. And then a deep knocking sound resonated through the device, a low bass that drowned out the noise in his head. Drowned out everything.