This was the missing recording. The one from Kaylie’s microcassette recorder, I was certain.
My voice again, sounding so small, childlike.
“No more, no more, no more, no more, no more.” This same phrase repeated for nearly five minutes, then my voice dropped lower, sounding like a much older man—
“Again,” this deep voice said.
“He might not be able to take it again.” My voice, but an octave higher.
“Again,” the deep voice insisted.
The child voice, droning, “No more, no more, no more, no more.”
Deep voice, “Again, dammit.”
“I’m trying.”
“Cut the radial artery, right there at the wrist.”
“I’m trying.”
“Give me the scalpel.”
“No more, no more, no more. No—”
“Dammit.”
“You can’t do it, either?”
Deep voice, “No.”
My voice, “Momma? Where’s Momma?”
“The sedative is wearing off,” the higher voice said. “More thorazine?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the boy’s father? Is he here?”
“Out in the waiting room. Want me to get him?”
“Yeah. I want to see if he can do it.”
Two loud clicks. The various voices were replaced by Kaylie again, reading aloud from a psychology text book. Study notes of some kind. A remnant recording. Probably part of whatever was on the tape before she recorded our session.
Stella was staring at me. “What are we listening to? Is that someone at Charter runningtestson you?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know.
Another two clicks.
Tick…tock.
Tick…tock.
“Can you hear me, Jack?”
“Uh huh.”
