The moon barely escaped the rooftops.  It hovered just over one red tiled peak looking more like a security light than a celestial body.  It watched over the sleepy bedroom streets spreading its cold rays across the dark windows.

The only noise that could be heard was the hum from the hot tub next door.  Jamie zipped up his sweater, hoping to insulate himself from the rapidly cooling air.  The cold leached into his body, even though the temperature would have seemed balmy back in Oakland.  After the swelter of the day, the night felt autumnal.  A  yawn escaped him, and despite being alone, he shielded his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jamie had never been much of a drinker and the wine was making him drowsy.  That night, one glass had turned into two, then three.  With each one, it went down a little easier and a little faster, until he had finished a whole bottle by himself.  Even before he had emptied the last of it, he could feel the pull of his bed.  But he forced himself to stay up and watch the moon.  It would provide no atonement but he felt the need to do this small amount of penance.

At that very moment, Amy was going through hell.  She was being ripped apart and taken over by the beast, while Jamie's co-workers looked on and gawked.  It crushed him that there was nothing he could do to help her.  There was nothing he could do to stop her misery from being a source of scientific fascination.  His powerlessness made him feel thin like a ghost—an ephemeral being wandering through life, touching nothing.

Jamie's hands were pained from the perceived chill.  He lifted the left one in front of his face and clasped it with his other.  Amy had done this.  At the time he didn't understand her reason.  It appeared to just be some bizarre manifestation of her distress. 

He held them there and examined the shape they made.  Memories of touch drifted up from the netherworld of his mind, summoned by his self-pity and the spell of the Syrah.

He could feel Glen's hand in his as they sat on the train watching the dazzling scenery pass by.  They left the conference in Geneva behind to spend a night in Gruyeres for a break from the dry shoptalk in the hotel bar about pleiotropy and zygotes.  And so Glen wouldn't have to spend another evening trying to hide his infinite boredom.  There was a stern elderly couple in the seats opposite them.  The man's dress shirt looked as though it had been ironed while he was wearing it.  The woman's face could have been made of wax.  Jamie had shyly positioned his jacket over their clasped hands.  Under its warmth, Glen's thumb stroked the webbing beneath Jamie's index finger.

That caress morphed into his mother's fingers on his palm.  They danced lightly over the lines and creases, tracing elaborate patterns.  Jamie lay in bed with his eyes shut.  The world shrunk to contain only the movement on his palm, sleep trying desperately to drag him away from it.

The fingers slipped away and he caught them, only to find his sister's small hands in his.  Bright afternoon sun filled the courtyard.  He spun around with Nadia laughing, giddy with dizziness.  They twirled and twirled until they both collapsed on the ground giggling and gasping.

But all that was the past.  Now his hands were cold and held only each other.

The clump of fingers and knuckles blocked the moon from view.  Amy had been telling him something important with this gesture—something he was too distracted to see at the time.

I miss it too, he thought, pretending to speak to her over the boundaries of time and space.  This simplest form of affection was taken for granted until it was gone.  Touch wasn't just one of the five senses; it was the sense of connection and belonging.

Earlier he had gone into the OC before the shift change and relieved Paulson from monitoring duties.  The man had expressed suspicion through his caustic comment, "Don't go thinking that I owe you anything."  But he was only too eager to leave.

Once the OC was empty, Jamie ducked into the therapist's office.  There wasn't much time.  People would be filing in any minute. 

"Amy." He whispered into the microphone.  The urgency and hushed tone made him sound impatient and demanding.  He took a breath and forced himself to speak slowly.  "Amy, it's me.  Come to the window, please."

From the monitor, he watched her get off the bed and make her way across the room, with quick, small steps.  Jamie rubbed the vertebra beneath his collar waiting for the curtain to open. 

"Sorry," he said when she appeared.  "We don't have much time."

"Why not?"  Amy's skin was drained of color.  She looked worse than she did through the video screens.

While Jamie hunted for the right words, Amy guessed the answer.  "They'll be coming for me soon, won't they?"

The nightshift was already abuzz about tonight.  Jamie had passed them in the breakroom having an impromptu meeting.  R.J. was discussing possible effects of the eclipse and telling the others what to be prepared to do under different scenarios.  Jamie had only listened at the door for a minute, before his revulsion at the analytical way Amy was being discussed inspired the urgent need to see her.

"Yes."  Jamie looked down to avoid her eyes.  "You didn't change last night.  Maybe it's not going to happen."

Amy seemed preoccupied with settling into the chair.  For a fleeting second, it reminded him of the way Glen's dog would circle a spot on the couch before laying down. 

Once she had tucked one leg underneath her and plunged her hands into the pockets on the hoodie, she said, "No.  It's going to happen tonight.  I can feel it."

"Are the headaches back?  Do you want me to get someone to give you something for the pain?"

"No.  No, it's not a headache.  It's like I told Horus, it's hard to explain."  Amy dropped her head and her blonde hair rushed to cover her face.  She struggled to free her hand from the pocket and brushed it back.  "I feel tense today.  But there's something else..."

"What?"

She stayed silent until Jamie was certain she was ignoring him and didn't want to say any more about it.  Then out came a small voice, "It's like I'm not alone.  Like somebody's watching me."

Amy twisted her head and look off at that familiar spot on the wall that always drew her eyes when she was uncomfortable.

"Is it the woman?"

"I don't know.  Maybe."

"Have you had more dreams about her?"

"I don't want to talk about it."  Her jaw tightened and her lips pressed tight, sealing them.

"That's alright.  You don't have to say anything."

The timestamp on the monitor below the window was ticking away their moment together.  He'd have to leave her soon.

"I'm sorry that you have to go through this."  Jamie ached at the sound of the words.  Making his guilt manifest did little to lessen it.  "I'm sorry they're going to put you in that horrible room again."

Amy looked at him again.  Her eyes glistened with a film of sorrow.  "It's not your fault."

Jamie wanted to say, it is.  But the words wouldn't come out.  It was as much his fault as R.J.'s or Gracie's.  She wasn't an animal. She shouldn't be locked in a cage.  But none of them put her there.  And none of them lifted a finger to get her out.

"I have to go in there," she said.  "I'm a monster."

"No, you're not.  Don't say that."

Amy raised her hands and clasped them in front of her face.  The two small pale hands seemed to mesmerize her.  When she spoke her voice sounded far away.  "My family...they would still be alive if it wasn't for me."

"Don't say that.  It wasn't you."

Her hands came apart and collapsed into her lap.  "Then who was it?"

The first click of the Observation Center's door unlocking hit his ears like a gunshot.

"I've got to go.  We'll talk about this later."  He raced for the door.  By the time he took his seat and the spectator's for tonight's show started coming in, the monitors showed Amy back on her bed, flat on her stomach, with her head buried deep in her pillows.

Jamie let go of his hand and placed both against the lawn chair's armrests.  The moon had gained height and volume.  It seemed to taunt him.  She's mine, it seemed to say.  You cannot help her.