“First was better.”
“Less clinically useful.”
Then abstraction.
A proverb.
Kimia interpreted it.
Another.
She argued with the wording.
The neurologist wrote.
“Don't.”
“I have to.”
Visuospatial.
Copy a complex figure.
Kimia stared.
Lines. Boxes. Intersecting shapes.
She copied it.
One angle wrong.
Noted.
Then perception.
A panel with shifting geometric forms.
What changed? Which line moved? Which object appeared farther away?
Kimia performed well until one test presented an illusion deliberately engineered to make two identical lengths appear unequal.
She chose one.
The doctor measured.
“Same.”
Kimia stared.
“No.”
He handed her the ruler.
She measured.
Same.
Kimia felt something unpleasant move through her stomach.
The doctor saw.
“Zhis is normal.”
“I know what normal means.”
“Almost everyone gets zhat wrong.”
Kimia measured again.
Same.
Her mind did not like it.
The eyes insisted. The ruler disagreed.
Kimia placed the ruler down.
“Continue.”
The doctor studied her for a second, then did.
Reality testing came later and was less theatrical than Kimia expected.
Questions.
“Have you recently perceived zhings you knew were not present?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Kimia hesitated.
Tarkhe remained behind her.
No escape.
“Movement in reflections.”
“When?”
“Occasionally.”
“Do you believe zhe reflection actually moved independently?”
“No.”
“Have you ever believed it might?”
Kimia looked at him.
“Yes.”
“How strongly?”
She considered.
“Enough to look away.”
“But not enough to act on it as fact?”
“No.”
The neurologist wrote.
Kimia felt shame.
Then anger at shame.
“Anyzhing else?”
“Rooms feeling wrong.”
“Wrong how?”
“Meaning.”
He waited.
“Not shape. Usually.”
“Usually?”
Kimia swallowed.
“Sometimes distance feels uncertain.”
“Do you know it is uncertain perception razher zhan zhe room changing?”
“Yes.”
“Always?”
A pause.
“No.”
The neurologist made another note.
Kimia's ears flattened.
He noticed.
“Remember what I said.”
“Patterns.”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful.”
More.
Do you hear voices?
No.
Do you experience thoughts as coming from outside yourself?
Sometimes they feel alien.
Do you believe another entity places them there?
No.
Do you believe people can read your thoughts?
No.
Do you believe ordinary events contain messages intended specifically for you?
Sometimes emotionally.
But do you believe that literally?
No.
Kimia stopped.
Then corrected: “Mostly no.”
The doctor looked up.
“Explain.”
Kimia hated this.
“Sometimes somezhing happens and it feels too exact.”
“Coincidence?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know coincidence exists?”
“Yes.”
“Can you accept coincidence as zhe likelier explanation?”
Kimia thought.
“Usually.”
The neurologist nodded.
That seemed to matter.
Then comprehension.
A hypothetical.
If smoke fills a room, what do you do?
Leave.
If a sealed letter arrives from an unknown sender-
Inspect.
If a subordinate reports conflicting instructions from two ministries-
Verify chain of authority.
If you wake and believe the ceiling is melting-
Kimia froze.
The neurologist did not know.
Or Tarkhe had told him.
Her face changed enough that he noticed.
“What?”
“Nozhing.”
“Kimia.”
She looked at Tarkhe.
The physician remained silent.
Kimia turned back.
“If I wake and believe zhe ceiling is melting?”
“Yes.”