I turned it on. I overlooked that our own was one of those PCs that makes a sound like a choir saying "Ahh" when you turn it on.

"Shh," I murmured, squeezing my hands over the speakers. "Moronic PC."

I looked out into the corridor. Lights off, no sounds. I settled once again into my seat and began the web program, and went to Doc.Com, one of those therapeutic sites. It stacked a main story about whooping hack, and a pennant advertisement that recommended I inquire as to whether Chubusil was appropriate for me, and afterward at long last the part where I could enter Mom's manifestations. I composed.