The Therapist

She wanted him to talk about his childhood again. It wasn't that she thought childhood was especially meaningful. She wasn't that kind of therapist. It's just that after all the testing, she knew that his peritemporal region was hot when he talked about his childhood. Perhaps because of the memories he reassembled. Didn't matter. She didn't care why. All she needed to know was that the region was hot, densely active. And that meant it was a gateway.

While he leaned back on the couch, his head almost lost in the cheerful pillows, she asked him about elementary school. The PET-cap was feeding his brain's innermost responses to the computer mounted on the arm of her chair. The process was seamless and simple. She could have told him the close-fitting cap was designed to enhance relaxation. And the three-inch square monitor in front of her? An appointment planner. "It's not even on."

He started to talk about some school play, and being chosen for a smaller part than his better-dressed, more well-liked rival. The activity on the monitor was ferocious. She had tapped a rich vein. The Neural Index was already up to 6.5, and he'd only been talking for a couple minutes. The oranges and yellows on the monitor painted a picture of intense involvement with the memory. As soon as the first reds appeared and the NI topped 8.0, she'd have him. And then administering the drug was all that remained. The PET-cap contained three microscopic PTUs—particle transfer units. The drug would be forced through the scalp without him even knowing it.

His voice became thick and slow. He was crying. Should she have been listening? The night of the play. He forgot his lines, froze in front of parents and teachers. Oranges crowded out yellows. Neural Index, 7.9. He was almost ready. She found the button on the underside of the armrest and rested her finger on it.