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She stops and I am suddenly aware that I am leaning forward, waiting for her next words. I gesture impatiently, tired of the farce, tired of being strung along.

“What next?” she interprets, smiling thin-lipped. “Dylan was working for the Institute on a sensitive project when he suddenly died.”

I cry out, an inarticulate thing that is pure pain.

“Yes, your brother is dead. But the Institute needs to finish his project and only someone with similar—or greater—talents can do his work. That’s you, Sarah.”

Squaring my shoulders, trying to ignore my dragons’ weeping, I sit up straight, proud for once to be locked away from such people by my insanity. For once, by saying nothing I truly speak as fully as I wish.

“Oh.” Dr. Haas almost laughs. “You wonder how we’re going to manage anything because of your ‘autism.’ There have been many advances in the years since you left us, Sarah, and some of them are going to take us right inside your head. You’ll be able to say all you want, just as freely and fluently as you—or as we—wish. Think about it. Won’t it be wonderful? And while you’re thinking, I’ll be setting things up for your first session.”

She leaves and I fall back, trembling, on the bed.

“She wasn’t telling the whole truth,” Between says.

“I agree,” Betwixt adds. “She’s hiding something.”

“But I couldn’t catch what,” Between says. “I tried, but she’s too good. One thing she was lying about was Dylan’s death—at least she didn’t tell the whole story.”

“He is dead, though,” Betwixt replies sadly. “I’m sure.”

I roll over and bury my face in the beige bedding, my own instincts agreeing with what the dragons are saying. Yet, I don’t have any answers or even any free will. I suspect that if I do not at least go through the motions of cooperating, they will have ways prepared to force me.

So when two of the navy-uniformed guards arrive, I jump to my feet and smile. They do not stop me from taking Betwixt and Between and only hesitate slightly when I set Athena on my shoulder. That they do not refuse me my petty arsenal confirms what I have deduced. Even if I were to win my freedom, there is nowhere for me to go.

Our first stop is a room tiled white on walls and floor. The only furnishings are a chair with padded arms and headrest and a long table covered with various pieces of unfamiliar gear. Another of the blue uniforms, a stocky, brown-haired woman, is waiting.

“Now,” she says, her voice hardened with some nasal accent, “I know you don’t talk, but I hear y’do hear, so listen up. The word is that you are to have your hair shaved clean off. There are two ways we can do this. One is you can sit down pretty and pretend you’re at the beauty parlor going for a flipping avant-garde look. The other is me and my buddies sit you down, strap you in, and you lose the hair just the same.”

I walk and sit, clutching Betwixt and Between and wondering if there is some reason for this process or is it only a bit of malice intended to humiliate me. The machine in the woman’s hand buzzes merrily and my hair drops off in heavy, cream-colored chunks.

As she works, the barber and the guards discuss some ongoing poker game, without a single word to me beyond “tilt your head” and “raise your chin.”

I had nearly forgotten how the sane treat the insane during my time with the Pack, but I fall into the role of malleable dummy easily enough. When she finishes, she holds up a hand mirror. The jade eyes that stare out at me are all the rounder within a face unframed by hair. I lift a hand and rub the naked, smooth surface. It feels strange, and softer than it looks.

“Pretty, eh?” the woman grunts. “Now, next you go over into that corner shower and wash off any hair. When you’re done, put on the wrap you’ll find in there and bring all your old stuff here.”

Obediently, I go over and am relieved to find that there is a curtain I can draw, providing at least an illusion of privacy. After washing, I towel off and find the “wrap.” This