Julia moved over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. She slipped her shoes off. Her feet hurt. They always hurt in heels. Why does one get dressed up to see the doctor? He could have told her she had six months to live while she was wearing flats. He didn't actually blurt it out as I walked in the door. He fooled around under that sheet for a long time. And then he said it. No, not then either. He just looked pained and hurt and a little white around the lips and he told me to get dressed and come into his office. He had the lab reports on his desk and he pounded on them and he said you're as good as dead now! I wish he had! Then I could hate him. I could hate instead of feeling numb all over. He didn't want to tell me anything. Just get ready for an operation. No, there really wasn't any rush. But soon. And then I dragged it out of him. I insisted I had a right to know. It was my life. No, I don't have any family here. No one ... no one! A brother in New York. Don't call him! The doctor stammered like a schoolboy who's unprepared in class. Julia fell back on the bed. She stared at the unlighted ceiling fixture. She should cry, but she'd cried in the doctor's office and there was nothing left to cry. Six months to live. Maybe only five months. Certainly no more than seven with the operation. A spring in the bed got her in the back. She ought to tell Mrs. Shultz to fix that. She certainly didn't want to spend her last six months sleeping on a loose spring. Spend her last six months! She turned over on her stomach and pressed her face into the blanket. Her body was rigid. She tried to contemplate her own death. She should call her brother. No, she would die first. "Hello, excuse me, my name is Vassi." Julia raised her head and looked around the room. It was empty. "Would you say this is a typical prior dwelling?" Julia sat up. There was no one. "Oh, I hadn't thought of that possibility. I suppose we don't have a similar frame of reference. You'll never understand my thoughts." * * * * * She got off the bed. She walked around the room and her stocking feet made little padded sounds on the cotton carpet. Then she crossed to the door of the apartment and pressed her ear against it. "Are you a ventriloquist?" she said. "A ventriloquist? Oh, my, no. I'm an historian." The voice was in her head. "I'm insane." It had to happen. She touched her finger-tips to her mouth. "Is that so? That's too bad. We're over and done with that sort of thing." "I'll wash my face with cold water. It must be the strain. I shouldn't have forced the doctor...." "You _are_ alone, aren't you? I looked around rather carefully. I didn't see anyone except that ... that thing on that piece of furniture." Julia looked at Belle. The cat was asleep on the dresser. She started to walk to the bathroom but stopped in front of the bed and sat down. Her head was going to burst. "Please" she said. "Please stop."