EVERYTHING IS, NOTHING IS

Legal BS: The original characters and plot of this story are the property of the author. No infringement of pre-existing copyright is intended.

Author's Note: I know it's been a long time. I considered writing a recap, but then I realized it would take three times as long for me to write one as it would for you to just reread the story, so.

Eight: Down the Rabbit Hole

The rain — the quiet, clinging mists — come as a sigh to the Pacific Northwest. Summertime here is a brief madness, a compulsion to live while one can. The obligation to enjoy the sun develops like brewed loose-leaf tea: good, then better, and finally bitter as weariness sets in. Late September, when the clouds slink across the sky, is a time of relief for the tired and tanned. The grey means quiet, retreat, and a deep breath out.

My skin looks chalky, pallid in the weak fluorescent light of the hospital's locker room. I hold my left hand up and watch my ring and middle fingers twitch. Persistent high-speed tremor. I spread my fingers wide and reach down to grip my knees.

Bella's back.

She arrived in the country last night. Not even six hours later, and she's lying in bed, waiting for me. But not for me — for my device, my drug, my ability to ease her mind.

"Fuck's sake," Dr. Newton says as he walks into the locker room, looking at his phone.

"Hm?"

"It's like she expects me to read her mind, y'know?" He's absorbed in his texts, obviously not expecting a real answer. Especially not from me. But still, I speak.

"What if you could, though. What if you could read her mind — know her thoughts, her dreams. Know exactly what she sees when she closes her eyes. Know, with absolute certainty, that she dreamt of you."

A pause. He isn't really listening. "Man, that'd be sweet." He tosses his phone in his locker, then removes his stethoscope and drapes it around his neck. His pager beeps.

"Hey," he says. "Swan's all hooked up and ready for you."

"Thank you, Dr. Newton," I murmur.

Once again, I war with myself. I can just introduce myself, say hello. Like a normal person. Look her directly in the eye, no sheet of glass between us. Hear her voice saying my name.

But my study. Everything I've worked for. The hours spent building Alice, the endless refinements of the Lethe.

The feeling, cool and quicksilver, of slipping inside her mind.

The door opens. The hallway passes me by. My lab appears before me. How I got here, who performed those actions — I cannot say with certainty. My mind is elsewhere.

Inside the lab fridge, row upon row upon row of test tubes shimmer crimson in the dim light.

I was just as obligated as everyone else this summer. Just as compelled. But my madness is far from brief.

"Go ask Alice," I mutter to myself, taking the first row of vials from the shelf.