Bruises having followed their predictable hue progression: reddish-purple to bluish-green to brownish-yellow to sallow-pink, Rockefeller’s groin (including penile shaft and scrotum) has returned (under unremitting scrutiny) to its normal coloration. Function, other than routine micturition, has yet to be fully tested; has yet to be sorely tempted is a claim he cannot make. But abstinence is affording a newfound gratification, since Yvette has learned a number of independent tasks—many of these performed with her almond eyes wide open, which is not to say her sight is focused or alert. Typically she will stare with a lazy sort of vacancy, seldom interrupted by a solitary blink, her mind in a seeming trance out of which she snaps at random, her face assuming on these occasions the look of someone mentally retarded, “severely” retarded, her intellect so diffuse it might be labeled “scattered”, her brain so disconnected it wanders out of reach, responding neither to encouragement from without nor instructions from within. Hunger and thirst, for instance, are monitored by a timetable and satisfied irrespective her personal volition, nourishment and hydration being provided systematically when her body lies in state i.e. hovers in the airlock with its life-support umbilicus fastened to her crotch—ingenious, if bizarre, and unromantically gross when it comes to cleaning and maintenance. Yvette, if truth be told, is a chore to keep alive. Every deviation from his father’s strict directives has incurred a form of penalty, insignificant to acute (announced by warning lights flashing or the din of shrill alarms); from minor indigestion onto respiratory arrest, Yvette has known discomfort, has suffered near disaster, each occasion taxing her custodian as it threatens his dependent, while ineluctably strengthening the couple’s offbeat bond.

	Opting to forego the use of pain to train behavior, Fell removes electrodes from Yvette’s compliant underarms (no response) and guides her by the shoulders to a prearranged exhibit—
	designed to teach her the names of things by associating textures. Spread out on a tabletop are half a dozen swatches: wool, silk, cotton, leather, velvet, and a four-inch square of fur, each
	beside its label, all within easy reach of her who sits in front of them—Rockefeller opposite, likewise on a stool, naked as his protégé.

            ‘Okay. Try to pay attention. Yvette? Pilot to co-pilot, do you read me? Anybody there? Okay be a zombie, but try to pay attention anyway. Put your hand on this. That’s it; touch it with your fingertips. Stroke it. Pet it. No, don’t eat it! Yvette? Open. Open your mouth, please. Alright chew the damn thing, if you must; go ahead, slobber all over it; but don’t you dare try to swallow it. Stop! St-ahhhhh-p. Ohhhhh-pen. Coochy-coochy-coo, let go. Not food. This is wool, which is also known as tartan, which is now just a soggy wad, thanks to your saliva. Yuck! Okay, let’s try again. Here; touch this one. That’s called silk. Feel the difference? Feel how smoooooth, how sleeeeek it is? Uh, uh; not for tasting. We’ll do taste tomorrow, if you like; today is all about touching. And naming what you touch, or at least connecting a sound, a word, a symbol to the feel of a certain thing. Silk. I know you can’t say it, but I’m convinced you can recognize it—silk—by its name—silk—by the way it feels when it brushes against your skin. Here’s another one. Rabbit fur. Okay, use your left hand if you want to. Good. Not inside your m... Fine; against your cheek is okay. Your right hand holds the silk. Your left hand holds the rabbit fur. Soft, huh? Silk. Rabbit fur. Rabbit fur. Silk. Got it? Okay, put them down. Yvette? Knock-knock; anybody home? Yvette? Down. Put them down. Do it by yourself. Watch. Down. Fingers open. How can anyone so gorgeous be so dense? Bastard. Son-of-a-bitch; I’ll see him rot in hell. Or better yet, I’ll see him fitted with a lifelong straightjacket. Here, sweetie. Open your fingers. That’s right. Down. Perfect. Okay, here’s number three. Leather. That’s right, touch don’t taste; you can sniff it if you want to, you can rub it on your face if you absolutely must. Leather. Also known as rawhide. Comes from a cow. Leather. Do you know cow? Moo? No, of course not; how could you? How could you know anything, cooped up in this glorified sensory deprivation tank, your whole life squandered in a lab-rat’s version of solitary confinement. Christ; the man’s a maniac, a menace to society! Velvet. That’s called velvet. Yum-yum no. Open. Ohhhhh-pen. Yvette. Yvette, you’re like a pit-bull, sometimes. Let the damn thing... Thank you. Sharp; those teeth of yours. Look, you made a little hole. No matter. Velvet. Sloppy, holey velvet. Okay, here’s the last. Cotton. Yvette, are you still with me? You-who, Yvette? Don’t drift away, sweetie. One more swatch, then we’ll quit. Cotton. No, that’s wool. Wool. Cotton. Cotton. Wool. Feel the difference? Hear the difference in their names? No? Is this beyond your boundaries, completely out of range? I hope not. I hope that asshole left you roots enough to sprout some semblance of intelligence. Brain cells don’t regenerate is the conventional wisdom, but they do have a knack for reassigning functions to undamaged areas. You can do this. You do those exercises. You’ve learned, or at least you’ve been programmed to comply with basic commands—after a bit of coaxing. It’s not just pain avoidance, either. I tried those electrodes; hurt like the dickens. But you respond without my resorting to torture. Heaven knows what my father may have done to put you through your paces. Maybe you don’t remember. Maybe a day, an hour, a minute ago is lost to your fickle immediacy. Leather. Which one? Leather. Also known as rawhide. Also known as cow skin—none as superb as yours. Not so much as a pinhead mole detracts from your skin's perfection. Why sustain so incomparable a package and dismantle what it holds? Prick! I never thought I’d be vilifying a man I grew up admiring. Worshipped him, I did. He sacrificed a lot to give me my advantages, him being a single father, a widower—which happened when Rem was young, yet he never remarried. Raising me was 'enough', he said on more than one occasion. Little did I know that he had you stashed away. Not that you’re much company, sorry to admit. Deliberate or accidental? Maybe you’re a failure he didn’t have the heart to dump—giving him credit for some semblance of conscience; though sometimes I wonder. Essentially Rem is a misanthrope. Loves folks as they might be, loathes them as they are. Could that be it? Are you some sort of ideal human he fucked-up in the making? Surely he didn’t intend for you to be a mindless manikin. Or did he? Callous Rem can be, but it's doubtful he's diabolical. Though looking around... Hey, you did it! That’s it; that’s leather. Bless your left cheek’s dimple; you may have a future yet!’