“J.C.!” I shouted as he stopped to reload.
I wasn’t inclined to give them the opportunity. How would my mind interpret that? Undoubtedly, there were a dozen psychologists who’d want to write a paper on it. I didn’t know what would happen if one of my hallucinations shot me. He might accidentally shoot me if I surprised him. He emptied a clip into bin Laden’s face, punching an assortment of holes through the wall in the process. “I was trying to have a conversation!” I yelled. wore his own earmuffs, his handgun raised in two hands, sighting at a picture of Osama bin Laden on the wall. Grumbling to myself, I grabbed the earmuffs hanging outside his door-I’d learned to keep them there-and pushed my way in. The gunshots coming from J.C.’s room popped like firecrackers. My hallucinations, however, are all quite mad. My name is Stephen Leeds, and I am perfectly sane.
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