He's so obviously concerned, Joan twists with guilt over not remembering this sweet young man. Her stomach twists anyhow with remnants of nausea from pain medications she hasn't - according to the journal and laptop named Nittany (it speaks, which is strange; she left it at 'home') - taken in years.

"I was in an accident--" Days ago. "Some years ago, and I occasionally suffer from exceptionally vivid dreams." True, but not truth. The most skillfully crafted lie. "It's nothing to worry yourself over, in any event. And Arthur's fine." Arthur. Her husband. She'd never dreamed... "How are things over in--" Where was it now? Emily. Matt. Sarah. Daniel. What had she read, quickly now? ... "New Atlantis. With the baby?" There's a baby. She read that, didn't she? "How did the painting turn out?" That she felt on firmer footing about. She'd seen it earlier while trying to figure out why she wasn't bleeding to death.