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me. From now on, though, the matter is essentially in the Center's synecdochic hands." Beep . "John Prendergorst speaking, Center for the Palliative Treatment of Hopeless Diseases. You've probably heard Bamford's preliminary report by now, and we just now corroborated it down here at Hopeless. Please call my office at your earliest convenience, and we'll arrange for you to come by and talk, but I'm afraid no amount of talk can change the fact that Xavier's is one hundred percent fatal. I'll show you the statistics." Beep . "Jack? Helen. I'm at the office, working on that neuropathology of spiritual possession piece. Looks like a long day and a longer night. There's some chicken in the freezer."
    My reaction was immediate and instinctual. I ran into the study, grabbed Helen's unabridged dictionary, and began looking up "fatal," bent on discovering some obscure usage peculiar to Prendergorst's profession. When the doctor said "fatal," I decided, he didn't mean fatal , he meant something far more ambiguous and benign. My eye glided down the F entries.
    Fast .
    Fasten .
    Fat .
    Fatal . Adjective. Causing death; mortal; deadly.
    Fatalism
    Fatality
    Fatally
    No. The dictionary was lying. Just because Prendergorst's forecast was pessimisitc, that didn't make it true .
    Fata Morgana . Noun. A mirage consisting of multiple images. And, indeed, a vision now presented itself to my vibrating brain: one of the few copies of The Journal of Psychic Healing that I'd declined to burn, a special issue on psychoneuroimmunology, its cover displaying a pair of radiant hands massaging a human heart.
    Fatuous . Adjective. Unreal, illusory.
    Psychoneuroimmunology wasn't fatuous — not entirely. Even the peripatetic prose of The Journal of Psychic Healing hadn't obscured the scientific validity of cures spawned by the mind-body connection. There was hope. Oh, yes, hope. I would scour the city's data banks, I vowed. I would learn about anyone who'd ever beaten a fatal illness by tapping into the obscure powers of his own nervous system. I would tutor myself in sudden remissions, unexpected recoveries, and the taxonomy of miracles.
    Fault .
    Faust .
    Favor .
    Fawn . Noun. A young deer.
    Because, you see, it was like this: on his fifth birthday we'd taken Toby to the Imprisoned Animals Gardens in Spinoza Borough. Fawns roamed the petting zoo at will, prancing about on their cloven hoofs, noses thrust forward in search of handouts. Preschoolers swarmed everywhere, feeding the creatures peanut brittle, giggling as the eager tongues stroked their palms. Whenever another person's child laughed upon being so suckled, I was not especially moved. Whenever my own did the same, I felt something else entirely, something difficult to describe. I believe I saw the alleged God.
THREE
    Appropriately, the Center for the Palliative Treatment of Hopeless Diseases occupied a terminal location, a rocky promontory extending from the southern end of Locke Borough into the choppy, gunmetal waters of Becket Bay. We arrived at noon on Sunday, Helen driving, me navigating, the map of Veritas spread across my knees, its surface so mottled by rips and holes it seemed to depict the aftermath of a bombing raid. A fanfolded mile of computer paper lay on the back seat, the fruit of my researches into psychoneuroimmunology and the mind-body link. I knew all about miracles now. I was an expert on the impossible.
    We parked in the visitors' lot. Tucking the printout under my arm, I followed Helen across the macadam. The structure looming over us was monumental and menacing, tier upon tier of diminishing concrete floors frosted with grimy stucco, as if Prendergorst's domain were a wedding cake initiating a marriage destined to end in wife abuse and murder.
    In the lobby, a stark sign greeted us. ATTENTION . WE REALIZE THE
DECOR HERE DOES NOTHING TO AMELIORATE YOUR SORROW AND
    DESPAIR. WRITE YOUR BOROUGH REPRESENTATIVE. WE'D LIKE TO
    PUT IN DECENT LIGHTING AND PAINT THE WALLS. A