test.”
“Look, I’m not going to just abandon him. Now, are you going to help me move him or not?”
Dominic thought for a moment. “What if we’re seen?”
“Everyone’s gone for the night. Come on!”
Dominic hesitated.
“For Christ’s sake, Dom. If I drag him on my own, it’ll leave dirt on his clothes and scuff marks leading back here.”
Dom frowned, then bent over and took Jim’s ankles in his hands. Menno nodded his thanks and grabbed Jim’s arms just below theshoulders. They lifted him so his bottom cleared the floor by a few inches and moved, Dominic walking backward. At the threshold, they put Jim down for a second and Dominic opened the door. He checked that the coast was clear, then took his end again, and they quickly moved Jim along the corridor, going by closed doors, the little windows in them nothing but dark squares.
They were just passing the women’s room—the men’s was the next one along—when Menno heard a grunt. He looked down and saw that Jim’s eyes were now open, showing whites all around the irises.
—
Hearing was restored, as was vision. Fluorescent tubes behind frosted panels moved by overhead.
A male voice: “Dominic, stop.” And then the same voice: “Jim, um, you, ah, you passed out. How do you feel?”
A response required; one made: “I’m okay.”
Arms freed; legs, too. Pressure on the back.
A different voice: “Can you stand?”
Knees flexed; palms pushed against the dusty floor. The word “yes” was uttered as hands moved to brush away dirt.
The first speaker again: “You gave us quite a start.”
Silence. Then, filling the space: “I’ll be all right.”
“Yes, yes,” said the second speaker quickly. “Of course you will.”
—
Hours later, long after Jim had headed off to his sock-and-cheese thing—whatever the hell
that
was—Dominic and Menno were in the lab, still trying to make sense of it all. Dom was sitting on a three-legged stool, looking at a printout of the oscilloscope tracings, showing the noise in Jim’s auditory cortex disappearing at the instant he lost consciousness. On the wall behind him, held up by a pair of U-shaped acrylic braces, was a souvenir baseball bat, commemorating the two consecutive World Series wins by the Toronto Blue Jays. Menno, leaning against the opposite wall, looked at it, idly wondering what it was like to be a bat.
His reverie was interrupted by Dominic, saying for what seemed like the hundredth time, “For God’s sake, all we were trying to do was boost the queued phonemes so they wouldn’t be drowned out by his inner voice. What could have possibly gone wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“We have people like Jim,” said Dom, trying to puzzle it out, “who do have an inner voice, and then there are those who are—what? Monologue-less? Soliloquy-free?” He shook his head. “Bah. Those are both awkward names.”
“True,” said Menno softly, as his heart suddenly began pounding. “But, my God, there
is
an established term for those without inner voices—at least in my field of study . . .”
12
PRESENT
“Okay,” I said, looking out at my first-year psych class, “how many of you drive to the university each morning?”
About a third of the students put up hands.
“Keep your hands up. The rest of you: how many of you have had a job you’ve driven to day after day?”
Another third raised hands.
“Okay, now keep your hands up if this has ever happened to you: you arrive at your destination—school, work, whatever—and have no recollection of the actual drive.”
Most of the hands stayed in the air.
“Cool,” I said. “Lower your hands. Now, think about that: you undertook a complex task; you operated a vehicle weighing over a thousand kilos, you negotiated traffic, you avoided collisions, you obeyed signs and the rules of the road—you did all that without high-level conscious attention; that is, you did it while your mind was on other things.
“Let’s try
“Look, I’m not going to just abandon him. Now, are you going to help me move him or not?”
Dominic thought for a moment. “What if we’re seen?”
“Everyone’s gone for the night. Come on!”
Dominic hesitated.
“For Christ’s sake, Dom. If I drag him on my own, it’ll leave dirt on his clothes and scuff marks leading back here.”
Dom frowned, then bent over and took Jim’s ankles in his hands. Menno nodded his thanks and grabbed Jim’s arms just below theshoulders. They lifted him so his bottom cleared the floor by a few inches and moved, Dominic walking backward. At the threshold, they put Jim down for a second and Dominic opened the door. He checked that the coast was clear, then took his end again, and they quickly moved Jim along the corridor, going by closed doors, the little windows in them nothing but dark squares.
They were just passing the women’s room—the men’s was the next one along—when Menno heard a grunt. He looked down and saw that Jim’s eyes were now open, showing whites all around the irises.
—
Hearing was restored, as was vision. Fluorescent tubes behind frosted panels moved by overhead.
A male voice: “Dominic, stop.” And then the same voice: “Jim, um, you, ah, you passed out. How do you feel?”
A response required; one made: “I’m okay.”
Arms freed; legs, too. Pressure on the back.
A different voice: “Can you stand?”
Knees flexed; palms pushed against the dusty floor. The word “yes” was uttered as hands moved to brush away dirt.
The first speaker again: “You gave us quite a start.”
Silence. Then, filling the space: “I’ll be all right.”
“Yes, yes,” said the second speaker quickly. “Of course you will.”
—
Hours later, long after Jim had headed off to his sock-and-cheese thing—whatever the hell
that
was—Dominic and Menno were in the lab, still trying to make sense of it all. Dom was sitting on a three-legged stool, looking at a printout of the oscilloscope tracings, showing the noise in Jim’s auditory cortex disappearing at the instant he lost consciousness. On the wall behind him, held up by a pair of U-shaped acrylic braces, was a souvenir baseball bat, commemorating the two consecutive World Series wins by the Toronto Blue Jays. Menno, leaning against the opposite wall, looked at it, idly wondering what it was like to be a bat.
His reverie was interrupted by Dominic, saying for what seemed like the hundredth time, “For God’s sake, all we were trying to do was boost the queued phonemes so they wouldn’t be drowned out by his inner voice. What could have possibly gone wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
“We have people like Jim,” said Dom, trying to puzzle it out, “who do have an inner voice, and then there are those who are—what? Monologue-less? Soliloquy-free?” He shook his head. “Bah. Those are both awkward names.”
“True,” said Menno softly, as his heart suddenly began pounding. “But, my God, there
is
an established term for those without inner voices—at least in my field of study . . .”
12
PRESENT
“Okay,” I said, looking out at my first-year psych class, “how many of you drive to the university each morning?”
About a third of the students put up hands.
“Keep your hands up. The rest of you: how many of you have had a job you’ve driven to day after day?”
Another third raised hands.
“Okay, now keep your hands up if this has ever happened to you: you arrive at your destination—school, work, whatever—and have no recollection of the actual drive.”
Most of the hands stayed in the air.
“Cool,” I said. “Lower your hands. Now, think about that: you undertook a complex task; you operated a vehicle weighing over a thousand kilos, you negotiated traffic, you avoided collisions, you obeyed signs and the rules of the road—you did all that without high-level conscious attention; that is, you did it while your mind was on other things.
“Let’s try
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