“Jackie!” Michael cried out. Get the insurers on board, discounts on the meds, make it cheaper to prescribe a course of treatment than to take the call-center time to explain to the guy why he’s not getting the meds. Maybe he was a lousy libertarian. “Michael, you’re far from home,” Miriam called.
Grandmother rocked. Beside me, in their suits, Miriam and Poole sat watching my reaction. “Well, that’s not me,” says the old guy. I looked into them and tried to decide whether crazy was what I saw there—crazy, or one of Araki and Kawabata’s precise, medicalizing euphemisms: schizophrenia, paranoia, psychosis.
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