There are news reports about the missing girl. You avoid looking at them. She avoids looking at them. She tells you to forget her name. Call her something else. But you still think of her as Lindsay, the babysitter, and you hate to be reminded about who she is and where she came from. All you want to do is get her cured and then send her back out into the world. She has been listless lately. Suffering withdrawal symptoms, you suppose. Her hands shake. She sleeps all day. You put speakers in her room and run a wire under the door to the CD player. Tight squeeze, but you manage. Mozart. Bach. The music calms her, you think. Calms the savage beast inside of her. Your wife would play this music while she cooked. You would read your newspaper in the chair by the television set. You would eat to
