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He dreams this in the tall white room, its floor of limed oak. Tall windows. Beyond them, snow is falling. The world outside is utterly quiet, depthless. The light is without direction.
“Where did you learn your Russian, Mr. Milgrim?”
“Columbia. The university.”
Her white face. Black hair matte, center-parted, drawn back tight.
“You described your previous situation as one of literal captivity. This was after Columbia?”
“Yes.”
“How do you see your current situation as differing from that?”
“Do I see it as captivity?”
“Yes.”
“Not in the same way.”
“Do you understand why they would be willing to pay the very considerable fees required to keep you here?”
“No. Do you?”
“Not at all. Do you understand the nature of doctor-patient confidentiality, in my profession?”
“You aren’t supposed to tell anyone what I tell you?”
“Exactly. Do you imagine I would?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would not. When I agreed to come here, to work with you, I made that absolutely clear. I am here for you, Mr. Milgrim. I am not here for them.”
“That’s good.”
“But because I am here for you, Mr. Milgrim, I am also concerned for you. It is as though you are being born. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“You were incomplete when they brought you here. You are somewhat less incomplete now, but your recovery is necessarily a complexly organic process. If you are very fortunate, it will continue for the rest of your life. ‘Recovery’ is perhaps a deceptive word for this. You are recovering some aspects of yourself, certainly, but the more important things are things you’ve never previously possessed. Primary aspects of development. You have been stunted, in certain ways. Now you have been given an opportunity to grow.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?”