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“She’ll be performing the neurological evaluation.”
    An examining bed is pushed against the wall on my right, and on the left, beyond a secretarial-style desk, stands a short, androidlike machine that reminds me vaguely of my optometrist’s office.
    Judy holds out a folded hospital gown. “Please put this on,” she says and points to a door behind her. “Change in there, and we’ll get started with the exam.”
    Batista and Gates are discussing something about Arizona when I open the door and step back into the room. The gown is oversized and drafty. My hands feel for the back to make sure everything is secure.
    â€œDid I hear something about Arizona?”
    â€œI was just telling Mr. Batista about the desert climate in Phoenix,” Gates says. “And how hot it gets.”
    â€œEven in September,” Batista adds.
    â€œYeah, but—”
    â€œBut it’s a dry heat, right?” Gates laughs.
    I respond with an obligatory chuckle, but Misty’s serious expression doesn’t change at all. Her face might have been cast in plaster.
    â€œLet’s get started,” Judy barks. She gestures toward the examining bed. “Stand there.”
    I do so.
    â€œHold your hands out like this,” she says, and extends her arms outward, even with her shoulders, parallel to the floor.
    â€œGreat. Now, while keeping your elbow outstretched, bend your arm and touch your nose with your index finger.”
    This seems easy enough.
    â€œOkay, now close your eyes and do the same thing. Great. Now do the same with your left hand. Great. Now . . .”
    She runs through a standard neurological physical examination—measuring my ability to sense pressure, vibration, and temperature; evaluating my gait, balance, and reflexes—and then we move to the android.
    â€œThis instrument will evaluate your vision by surveying different areas of the eyeball—the cornea, iris, lens, conjunctiva, et cetera—and then by measuring your response to moving visual stimuli.”
    She makes a few adjustments to the machine and then instructs me to follow a point of yellow light as it dances through a black void. By my watch, the test lasts less than three minutes, but somehow it seems to drag on for hours.
    â€œThat’s great, Mr. Fisher. We’re almost done here. All I need from you now is a urine sample, and then we’ll measure your height and weight. You’ll find specimen cups above the sink in the bathroom, which is across the hall. Are you currently taking any medications?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œVery well then.”
    The spectators part as I walk toward them on my way into the hall. Misty’s face reads pure exasperation. She doesn’t say anything, however, and neither do the two suits. I trudge across the hall and—
    â€œMr. Fisher?”
    It’s Judy. She has followed me into the hall.
    â€œI think I can handle this test on my own.”
    â€œI know that,” she barks. “But I forgot to tell you to save some.”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œFor the test afterwards,” she explains. “Since your body will interpret the transmission as instantaneous, there won’t be any urine left if you completely empty your bladder now.”
    A genuine smile spreads across my face—the first of its kind since I entered this building—and I nod to Judy.
    â€œSo I should save some.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo problem.”
    But my humor dissipates quickly. An unfamiliar man looks back at me from the bathroom mirror, a man whose face shimmers with fear. Certainly they must all see it. Surely they must know that my heart now beats in my throat, must know the bitter taste of adrenaline in my mouth. Their machine, after all, is going to disrupt my body at the quantum level and then use the effects of something known as EPR correlation to reassemble me twelve hundred miles away—by far the most