A dozen people were watching TV in the waiting room of the psychiatric hospital. Because that's what the Driggers had told the senator's people: "Get Rachel Kravitz now, or watch Manattan burn. Massacres in the streets, ten thousand people torn apart in the first two hours. Tell her to start in the psych wards."

So there Rachel was, scanning the room with the quick defensive assessment of the cell block. She saw a clean-shaven guy with a ghost of a smile, a toothless woman in a quilted jacket, a twitchy kid with bloodshot eyes. Not anyone’s idea of the perfect birthday party, but not that bad.

Well, except for the long-haired girl strapped into the wheelchair, biting her lips so hard that blood dripped onto her shirt.

Rachel showed her new government ID at the desk, and the nurse said she'd find a doctor to speak with Rachel. She didn't say anything about her age, which kind of surprised Rachel. Maybe the nurse thought she looked older than she was. Maybe she didn't care.

"How many patients do you admit in a day?" Rachel asked the psychiatrist, when he got to the desk.

"Anywhere from twenty-five to forty," he said. "We turn away twice that many."

"How many do the cops bring?"

"Nonconsensually, you mean? Against their will?"

"Yeah."

"Ten to fifteen, most days."

"What about in the last twenty-four hours?"

The psychiatrist conferred with the nurse. "Thirty-two admissions, eleven of them via the NYPD. What’s your interest? I’m happy to introduce you to legal, if there’s a problem."

"There's no problem," she told him. "I’m new to Homeland Security, trying to understand how things work. I’m hoping you’ll show me around, like an observer."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Sure," he said. "My pleasure."

He showed her the wards, the nurses' station. Rachel didn’t know what she was looking for, so she just kept her eyes open. It reminded her of site visits with her father. You ask a few leading questions and let the person feed you information.

Finally, they returned to the waiting room, and the psychiatrist said, "If you have any concerns, contact the--"

He stopped at the sight of carnage on the televisions: a subway bombing, three miles away. Hundreds missing, dozens dead. A suicide bomber, who was apparently either a bearded Arab or a pretty blonde woman, depending on the network.

Rachel's stomach soured. First one bomber, then two--then a hundred. She felt light-headed and sick. She couldn't stop this, not by herself. She listened to the TV for a minute, then started to dial Umlaut.

Before the call connected, a garbled cry sounded across the room. A few words that turned Rachel's heart to stone. She spun toward the girl strapped into the wheelchair, with long hair and a face that might’ve been pretty if not for the madness.

"What’s that you said?" Rachel asked, kneeling in front of her.

The girl stared past her, blood trickling down her chin.

For a moment, Rachel drew a blank. She didn’t know how to deal with this. Then she thought, maybe this girl is someone’s sister. What if this was Audrey?

"Did you say ‘PJ’?" she asked, reaching to take the girl’s hand. "Something about PJ?"

The girl shrieked. "Don’t touch--don’t touch me--"

"I won’t!" Rachel raised her hands. "I won’t. It's okay. I'm right here. I'm not moving."

"Don’t touch me!"

"I won't, I promise. Just … tell me what you said? Say it again?"

The girl moaned and whipped her head back and forth, the muscles in her throat straining tight.

The psychiatrist said, "Give her space."

Rachel stood. "What’s wrong with her?"

"Acute undifferentiated schizophrenia."

"What does that mean?"

"Means I have no idea. The cops found her in the middle of 4th Street, screaming about needles and murders and islands and vans." He took the wheelchair handles and started toward the back. "I’ll bring her to--"

When her bare foot brushed Rachel’s leg, the girl shrieked, "Audrey!"

"Wait," Rachel said, a knot forming in her chest. "Who are you? What do you know?"

The girl's deranged eyes swiveled toward Rachel. "He’s here."

"Who? Who is?"

"PJ. In the city. Nar, nar--"

"Where?"

"--cotic." The girl’s eyes rolled back in her head. "Help me, God help me. Rachel Kravitz."

She started trembling and the psychiatrist shouted words that Rachel barely heard, all her attention focused on the seizing girl.

"There is something," the girl whispered, groping blindly in front of herself, reaching for Rachel. "Something you need to know."

Rachel took the girl's hand.