Absence of Mind

by H. C. H. Ritz

  I can imagine the jokes now. “I’ve been had, she’s been had, we all have HAD.”

  The reporter intones, “The hospitals here in Atlanta have been overwhelmed. Every neurological disorder ward has been filled to capacity and then overflowed. Grady Hospital is the first to rededicate portions of other wards to handle the influx of patients, but other hospitals are expected to follow suit in the next twenty-four hours. Hospital administrator Bruce Atwell is scheduled to give a press conference here at eleven o’clock, and his assistants tell me that he plans to detail the efforts of the Centers for Disease Control to identify the cause of the disorder. Meanwhile, if you observe anyone with unusually aggressive, anxious, or repetitive behaviors, hospital staff urge you to keep your distance and call 911.”

  Things are getting serious around here. I don’t like this at all.

  A few minutes later, as I’m heading up the elevators, my TellMeWhen trigger starts sounding off. The news reports start coming in with headlines like “Mystery Brain Disease Strikes Atlanta with Aggression, Anxiety” and “Atlanta Area Hospitals Overwhelmed with New Neurological Disorder.”

  Then the blog posts and the retweets and the reposts start flooding in faster than I can read them. As I’m walking down the hallway to Jamie’s room, people are putting in so many “I’ve seen it, too” comments from around the country that it becomes clear it’s a nationwide problem, not an Atlanta-specific one. There are a few references to potential cases overseas, too.

  I modify the TellMeWhen trigger to only ping me when there’s new information, something I haven’t heard yet.

  My heart is thudding in my chest again. Now I feel anxious, and feeling anxious makes me feel more anxious. Am I feeling anxious because I’m having problems with anxiety in general or because there’s some bizarre neurological epidemic happening… or because I’m coming down with the bizarre neurological epidemic myself?

  I tell myself that it’s the first option.

  Naturally, the moment the news comes out, my Collective starts pinging me, wanting to know whether I’ve seen this at my hospital, whether it’s what Jamie has, and what’s causing it. They want the inside scoop. I group-reply that it’s what the news articles are saying—nothing else to add. I pretend to miss the part about Jamie.

  For the first time, it occurs to me to wonder what this disorder looks like as it first hits. Out of morbid curiosity, I do a search. I soon find a series of videos tagged HAD. New videos are being added by the minute, with hundreds of alternately mocking and panicked comments.

  There’s a series of short clips with one woman in a clothing store. This one shows the addiction aspect rather than the aggression or paranoia. As the video starts, she carries an armful of dresses across the line that automatically tallies the total and deducts the money from a credit or bank account via Navi, and she drops the armful of clothing directly on top of a shopping cart already full of items. As she does, she flushes and her face takes on an expression of wide-eyed bliss. She stops and closes her eyes, apparently basking in joy.

  The person taking the video adds a quiet comment, “This is the fourth time she’s come through to buy stuff.” The view shifts over and shows another basket next to the first one, also heaped with clothing. “That’s all her stuff. She keeps going around and getting more stuff and putting it in the baskets. I mean, what the hell? I guess she won a shopping spree or something.”

  The video jumps, and it’s the same woman with another armful of clothing coming through and putting it into the basket. She stops again with the same expression of bliss.

  Then again. And again. The commentator says, “This is trip number six. Look at all that stuff. She’s probably spent a couple thousand bucks.”

  Twice more. The woman’s cheeks are permanently flushed now, her eyes glittering wildly.

  The next time, a male store employee approaches the woman. They appear to speak via Navi. The man puts his hands on one of the baskets as if to push it away, and the woman’s face twists into an ugly scowl. Things happen too fast to follow, and then the woman slaps at him viciously with both hands, and the man tries to fend her off. The commentator cheers on the fight.

  I stop the video, feeling nauseated. I scan the headlines of other videos.

  “This guy gets thrown out of Wal-Mart for trying to eat everything in the cookie aisle.”

  “Even a bucket of ice water won’t get this kid to stop playing Slipdaisy.”

  “WATCH: Granny goes after Grandpa with an axe.”

  Okay, that one would be freaking hilarious if it wasn’t so disturbing.

  When I go in Jamie’s room, he’s sitting placidly in one of the chairs next to the bed, probably looking at something on his display. His blond hair is unkempt, giving him a just-woke-up kind of look. He glances up at me, and his face remains blank.

  I sit down gingerly on the edge of the bed, avoiding any fast movements.

  He messages me.

  << Hi, Phoebe. You’re new. But you’re not a nurse. >>

  I don’t say anything for a moment. I’m trying to come up with some other interpretation of his words, some way to convince myself that he still knows who I am. His Navi would have told him my name. I’m not sure it would bother to mention that I’m his sister. Usually, people already know these things.

  I have that feeling you get when there’s a step down that you didn’t notice and so you unexpectedly drop those few inches.

  < Actually, I am a nurse at this hospital, but I’m not in my uniform, because I’m just here to visit you. >

  << Oh, okay. Thanks for visiting. >>

  His eyes resume the distant look people get when they’re engrossed in their Navis.

  < Can I ask you some questions? >

  << Sure. >>

  < Where do your parents live? >

  His brow furrows, and he tilts his head a bit.

  << I don’t remember. Isn’t that funny? I’m not sure. >>

  < Do you remember anything about yesterday? >

  He looks thoughtful.

  << What’s today? >>

  < This is Wednesday. Do you remember your birthday party on Monday? >

  His eyes get a faraway look.

  << Yeah. I think so. There were a lot of people. I played music. So I think so. >>

  I debate my next question for a moment. The Jamie I know and remember will be unhappy with me over this… if he ever comes back, and if he ever finds out… but I’m asking for his own good.

  < May I review your Navi archive from these last few days to see if anything unusual happened? >

  << Okay. >>

  Yeah, definitely not the Jamie I remember.

  I take a deep breath and turn on my disinterested-nurse mindset, just in case I learn something I don’t want to know about my littlest brother. Then I request access via his Navi and back up to Monday morning. All Navis keep recordings of the past 72 hours for exactly this reason, in case it’s needed by law enforcement or medical personnel.

  A few minutes later, I’m both disappointed and relieved to know that Jamie is—or at least was—the bratty but sweet kid I thought he was.

  He didn’t have any Monday classes, so he did laundry and cleaned up his apartment. Then his party was fun but not crazy, without drugs or too much drinking on his part. The only surprise is the visit from the girlfriend I didn’t even know he had. The little twerp has been keeping one secret. But even watching that part makes me smile. The two of them are sweet together.

  Then people leave, and they start making out. I grimace and fast-forward.

  Tuesday seemed like an uneventful day at first. He attended his 3D rendering class and a biology class via Navi, told some folks he was going to eat dinner in the college cafeteria, headed over there—and started assaulting people.

  As I’d expected by this point, I can’t see any provocation. I back up and rewatch the thirty-minute transition from normal Jamie to wild-animal Jamie several times, but there’s no reason for him to flip out.


  What bothers me more at this point is why he’s flipped over to a flat affect and memory loss. Is this going to happen to other victims of HAD, too?

  I sigh and disconnect the feed. Jamie still sits placidly. I reconnect long enough to look at what he’s doing right now: watching an old action movie from the hospital’s library, which is accessible specifically to people on lock-down.

  << Call from Family. >>

  Ugh. I let it go to voicemail, which I hear a couple of minutes later. I learn that my family has heard the news about HAD somehow, probably from interacting with shoppers in their community store or maybe from the mail carrier. They want to know whether it’s what Jamie has.

  After thinking it through carefully, I dictate a voicemail—one of the best uses of a Navi, in my opinion—that says that the media is hyping it up and it’s not all that, but yes, he has it, and yes, I’m confident that he’ll be released from the hospital soon.

  A smidgen of that isn’t a lie.

  I focus back on Jamie.

  < How are you feeling in general? Do you feel okay? >

  << Sure, I guess. My wrists are kinda sore. And my stomach is tender for some reason. >>

  Sore wrists would be from fighting the restraints, and the stomach tenderness is probably from the fistfights he got into yesterday.

  < Well, you can message me if you need anything, okay? I’m here at the hospital a lot. >

  He doesn’t reply.

  Once I’m outside the room, I lean against the wall, my stomach feeling like a stone.

  I desperately want to reach out to someone, to tell someone what’s happening, to gain that comfort and reassurance. But where would I post that my youngest brother doesn’t know who I am anymore? It’s too painful, too frightening to say to my Collective. I’m not ready to tell any family members. It’ll break my parents’ hearts if they find out, because if he doesn’t know me, he won’t know them either. So who can I tell? I don’t have any friends who are that close, with whom I would entrust this kind of secret.

  For some reason that I don’t fully understand, I message Mila.

  < Jamie doesn’t recognize me anymore. He doesn’t know me. >

  With that message released into cyberspace—with someone else knowing—it’s more real, and I feel tears start in the corners of my eyes. I rub them back, frustrated with myself. I cried yesterday. That was enough. No more crying. No pity parties here. Jamie’s not suffering, and he’s only one of thousands who are affected by this thing. It’s a freaking pandemic, and I can be part of solving it. I decide to put on my scrubs and go see if the CDC people can use my help before I have to report in at 8 p.m.

  At about seven thirty, my Navi forces me to stop and eat something, so I go down to the hospital cafeteria and load up on a veggie pasta and check the news. Stories about HAD are coming in from cities across the United States, and reports of HAD overseas keep coming in, too. The number of victims is going up by the minute.

  A news video shot here in Atlanta says, “Although officials continue to assure the public that there is no evidence as yet that the disorder is contagious, many people are withdrawing into their homes.”

  The video cuts to an older lady, who tells us, “I came out to pick up some groceries, and I promise you I’m goin’ right back home afterwards, and ain’t nothin’ gettin’ me back out ‘till they find out what’s doin’ it. I don’t want to catch it, whatever it is.”

  The newscaster goes on. “Numerous people have had sightings of those afflicted with the disease, and fear is gripping the city.”

  A middle-aged man this time. “I saw a guy sitting there in his car. It was a manual-drive car, but he was just sitting there, blocking traffic. Finally, somebody came to see what was going on and if he was okay, and he busted out of there and started swinging. He took out the other guy like it was nothing. And then he sat back down, right there on the ground, and—and did nothin’. Sat there.”

  Back to the newscaster. “According to officials, the man was playing an online poker game rather than driving, and he didn’t want to be interrupted.”

  Ugh.

  For my part, I’ve been helping give questionnaires to patients and their friends and family members while other CDC team members have been analyzing microbes and any traces of physical substances left on clothing and in people’s homes. I’ve talked to several CDC workers, and the universal answer has been that, so far, they have no idea what’s causing this.

  Meanwhile, the CDC and the World Health Organization are doing regression analysis and demographic analysis, and other than that, they’re hand-waving and saying that they’re “exploring possibilities.”

  I asked three people from the CDC whether the Navis could be implicated. They all looked at me like I was crazy and tried to explain to me that Navis are hardwired to be incapable of yadda yadda yadda. To two of them, I relayed what Mila had said. They both looked thoughtful and serious in response, but then they had to move right on to the next activity before they had time to respond. Regardless, it’s obvious that no one is planning to investigate the Navis as a serious possibility, at least not yet.

  As I finish the bread that came with my pasta, I decide that it’s time I try to do something with this information Mila gave me.

  Dr. Abadi should be arriving for night shift. Of course, I don’t have to see her in person to talk to her, but I’ve noticed that Navi messages delivered by someone standing nearby seem to carry a greater urgency. And I think this is urgent.

  I find Dr. Abadi in the locker room, praying in front of a murti image in the door of her locker, and I wait for her to finish. When she walks toward me, I hold the door open for her.

  < Sorry to bother you, Dr. Abadi. May I give you some information and ask a question? >

  << Go ahead. >>

  She doesn’t look at me as she heads out into the hallways. I follow one step behind her.

  < I was discussing the emergence of HAD with someone who programs Navis for a living. She assured me that although this is not common knowledge, it’s possible for people to hack into Navis. >

  Dr. Abadi halts briefly in front of the nurses station, probably telling them something via Navi.

  < She says it happens, though rarely, and the manufacturers settle the lawsuits out of court and have the victims sign non-disclosure agreements. >

  Dr. Abadi is in motion again, and I follow.

  < The CDC workers tell me that they aren’t finding anything that could explain this disorder. I think we should investigate the possibility that the Navis are implicated. >

  Dr. Abadi pauses outside a patient’s door and looks at me.

  << What would this investigation look like? >>

  I think quickly, since I hadn’t thought this through in detail yet. As I do, I feel a massive headache coming on.

  < We’d probably need a Navi installation technician, maybe the Navi programmer I mentioned. The Navi technician and programmer would probably have to drive the investigation, since it’s a technical issue rather than a medical one. >

  << I don’t have time to deal with this, so you set it up. Be sure you get patient consent or family consent for each patient. You’re merely looking for issues and not providing any treatment. As soon as you need a doctor, notify me. Don’t shirk your own duties. >>

  < Understood. Thank you. >

  << Oh, and make it legit. You have to get a properly licensed and bonded technician in here, not some random Navi programmer you know. >>

  She’s already stepping into the patient’s room.

  I let out a long, slow breath and rub my aching head. Okay. I hadn’t intended to end up in charge of this, but I guess it makes sense, given that it was my idea. I mentally gear up to face an even heavier workload than I was going to be facing already.

  First things first.

  < Mila, we need a technician who is licensed, bonded, etc. to do Navi troubleshooting to come out and investigate your suggestion that the Navis are implicated in
the amygdalae disease. Can you recommend someone? >

  This headache has intensified. It’s making me nauseated, and I’m starting to get the vision flares that mean it’s going to become a migraine soon. I think back and realize that I haven’t taken a caffeine pill in a while, so I take one plus a few ibuprofen and curse Past-Phoebe again. I have no idea what she was thinking, giving up coffee.

  Five

  Half an hour later, Mila plays a hand of cribbage at a table in the Lovely Pines Rest Home across from her mother. Mila’s face is tight and tense. The wrinkles in her forehead suggest that she still isn’t feeling well. She’s currently winning the round, with her peg about eight places ahead of Mrs. Bremer’s.

  They’ve been talking for a while, and now there’s a break in the conversation. Mila plays a seven of clubs, and her mother says, “That’s twenty-three,” and plays a seven of hearts. “And two points for me.” She chuckles gleefully and moves her peg.

  Mila finally speaks, her voice reluctant.

  “There has been a new disease happening. Nothing to worry about, nothing contagious. But I know one of the nurses at Grady Hospital, and she asked for some help with it.”

  “Oh, now, is that right? Do you mean she was asking you for help? Are you a doctor or something like that, honey?”

  “No, I happen to be an expert on a particular type of industrial material, and they think that might be what’s making people sick.”