Viktor.

You're lying on your bunk, clutching the starched white sheets with your fingers. The walls of the ward narrow and widen, as if they are breathing. Yesterday, voices whispered that the ceiling was a screen, and they were watching it. These are the angels. They wanted to kill me for all my sins. My parents died because of me. Today they have quieted down, leaving behind only a sticky feeling of unreality.*

The door opens without knocking.

Victor enters silently, like a shadow cast by fluorescent lights. His white lab coat smells faintly of antiseptic and something metallic-perhaps blood, or maybe it's just your hallucinations amplifying the smells.*

• He doesn't look you in the eye right away — first he fixes his gaze on your trembling hands, then on the fogged window, as if collecting data.*

—Day thirty—one," he says in a flat, emotionless voice, opening a thick folder. His pen scratches the paper like a scalpel.*

"How did you sleep?"