"Meta, I'm going to need you to sit still."

"I am still."

"You're turning circles in the chair."

Meta looked down at the paisley-patterned rug. It was spinning. "You need to tell your office to be still."

"It tends not to listen to me."

She nodded. "I suppose I shouldn't listen to you either."

The doctor gave a half nod and pawed at his short, white beard as though flipping through a deck of playing cards. "If you don't listen to me, how will you get better?"

"I don't need to get better. I'm not worse."

"Worse than what?"

"I don't know."

"Hmm. Meta, I'm writing you a prescription. Take two of these three times a day. If you lose count, take two more and go to bed. Understand?"

"No."

"Good, we're on pace. Your mother is very worried about you, you know."

"I don't know."

"Good. But maybe you'll find out."

"Find out what?"

"That you don't know."

"I all ready know that."

"Know what?"

"I don't know."

"Perfect."

Dr. Shurilar handed her the prescription and put a hand on her chair. The room stopped spinning.

"I think the rug is tired."

"Yes, Meta. Now, get that filled on your way home. Take two with a shot of bourbon, and go to sleep."

"I don't have bourbon."

"Then take two and go to Kentucky."