Sedatives are all that Fell okayed, thus far, for his father, whose condition, since admittance two days prior, if not improved, at least has stabilized. He is calm, within his jacket of wrap-around sleeves—histrionics thereby involuntarily quelled, with room enough to grant a degree of savior faire, though this has been abridged by Prozac three times daily (when and if he swallows it).

"What I most object to is their ultra-smug presumption that a person diagnosed with mental illness is excused from having anything to say of possible relevance. Cancer patients aren’t dismissed as kooks because of tumors. When a person has pneumonia no one writes him off as nuts. A broken bone or two, or twenty, doesn’t equal feeble-mindedness. Why should schizophrenics suffer hushed asides and innuendo plus a steady stream of smiley-face condescension?"

(Because we’re loons. You want the pilot of a plane you’re on to argue in the cockpit when the co-pilot's seat is undeniably empty? Want a cop who mimics sirens en route to crime scenes? How about a barber who insists on cutting their hair first when you and only you represent the queue?)

"If the jobs get done by those best trained to do them, quirks regardless..."

(We’re not quirky, we’re psychotic. Wait till what’s-his-face gets back from performing his appointed chores.)

"Which he’ll do dutifully."

(Oh, he’ll shut down the Lab all right—then blow the whistle. We’ll be more than out of business; we’ll be out of circulation. In jail. Or on some funny farm fit for dads with clones for sons.)

"That’s clone; singular."

(Skip it; someone’s coming.)

Remington/Stuyvesant halts his two-part tirade, soundless lips grown taut... relaxing into a grin upon Rockefeller’s entry.




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