FROM THE TEXT
"Isobel? I'm afraid we're going to have to take it off."

"Take it off, take it off," I sang, like a vamp song; but I don't think I actually did, and I know my laughter stayed locked inside my head. I think my voice did too.

"Isobel. Can you hear me?"

I didn't know. I didn't think so.

It was my leg. I went to sleep.

"Izzy," I said, finally figuring out what was wrong. "My name is Izzy." Nobody ever called me Isobel. I felt better, then. I didn't open my eyes, but now that the disturbing, frightening feeling that something was wrong was explained, I relaxed.

Except nobody here called me Izzy, I remembered that. Here, where everything was bright white, or cold metal, or pale plastic, where voices seemed to echo strangely, here they called me Isobel. Doctors and nurses, and there had been a policeman--why had there been a policeman in my room?--all calling me Isobel. I didn't correct them. It didn't seem so important at the time.

Back