If I were more in my right mind, I would want to pick at Nick to understand his story. There's a subtle caution in the way that he interacts with me, and I wonder if it's because I am obviously, very clearly on edge, or if there's something else to it. I'm not, though, and I file my curiosity away for later, to pick over when I have the ability.

I have to focus to hold onto the bottle of water. I could go for an aspirin or seven right about now, but of course they take all of those things away whenever you're booked into a mental institute-slash-penal institution to await trial for hideous murders.

But I'm not there anymore.

I take a deep swallow from the bottle, then read the notes.

"Dead?" I ask, eyebrows raised with the question. "That's, well, pretty final, I think. More final than where I was, before."

There's no way that happened to me, it's impossible. The only culprit would be the guards, and even though Chilton's incapacitated right now, he'd still have their heads if he knew that one of his men took out Chilton's newest prized possession.

I take Nick's note with Jane Foster's name on it and slip it into the pocket of my shirt. "Could it be some sort of shared delusion, a collective unconscious?" I'm thinking more out loud to myself than I am asking Nick, trying to work out what's happening. "No, that's too theoretical, too -- not actually the way the theory works. Delusion, yes, but let's not get into theory, that's not helpful. There's no -- no -- there's no context for something like this, no plan or design to it, nothing that would make sense."

I am desperate for this to make sense.