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first thing I want is for the voice to stop.” She grew thoughtful. “And I’m tired of always having a knot in my stomach.”
    “People carry their emotions in different parts of their bodies. Some develop stiff necks and shoulders, and some carry their fear and anxiety in their stomachs. But therapy is a little like lining up dominoes. You push one over, and the rest will follow.”
    “Okay, what’s the first domino?”
    “Let’s begin with the voice. Do you recognize it?”
    Frankie shook her head. “When I’m stressed I hear my uncle telling me what to do. But this child’s voice is different. Sometimes it seems familiar, sometimes not.”
    “And when do you hear the child’s voice? What are you doing when it’s most likely to speak to you?”
    “It sometimes comes in a dream, but it can happen anywhere. It’s even popped up while I’m in the middle of choir practice.”
    “And what kinds of things does it say?”
    “She usually cries and begs for help. Sometimes it’s like she’s talking to someone else, and I just overhear it.”
    “She?”
    “Yes.” Frankie took a deep breath in through her nose and slowly let it out through her lips. “I don’t know why… It just seems like it’s a little girl’s voice.”
    “And what does she want you to help with?”
    “She never actually says. She just cries and pleads.” Frankie sucked in another gulp of air.
    “Can you tell me what’s going on with your breathing right now?”
    “I sometimes hyperventilate. Have done since I was a kid.”
    “Do you need to take a break?”
    Frankie shook her head. “I think I need to keep going.”
    “Okay.” Angela’s smile was gentle. “Does this child ever ask you to hurt yourself or someone else?”
    “No. But it breaks my heart that she’s so scared.”
    “You’re wringing your hands. Can you tell me about that?”
    “I guess I’m dreading what you’re going to say.”
    “What do you fear I’m going to say?”
    “I don’t know. I…I guess I’m afraid you’ll tell me I’m losing my mind. My last therapist told me I was borderline schizophrenic.”
    “Oh? And how did you feel about that?”
    “At first I was pissed. It might be denial, but I don’t agree. I mean, do mentally ill people recognize they have a problem?”
    “It’s been my experience that they often do.”
    “But schizophrenia? I mean, wouldn’t I be doing things like wearing aluminum pyramid hats, or living on the streets?”
    “Not necessarily. That diagnosis covers a pretty broad spectrum of issues. Although, sadly, some people suffering from that disorder do wind up on the street due to lack of resources, I have schizophrenic clients who do quite well once we get the right medication going.” The therapist cocked her head. “But let’s get back to the voice. Tell me what you feel when you hear it.”
    Frankie clasped her suddenly-clammy hands together under her chin and forced her breathing to slow down. “Terror. Sometimes it’s so strong I feel like I can’t breathe.”
    Angela leaned forward in her chair, her face intent on Frankie’s. “How long does the terror last?”
    “Until I tell her to stop and go away.”
    “Does that work?”
    “At first it did, but lately not so much.”
    “And that feels like…” Angela left the question open for Frankie’s response.
    “It feels like she knows she’s running out of time.”
    “Before what?”
    “I don’t know.” Frankie opened her mouth wide and pulled in a lungful of air. “But whatever it is, I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.”

Chapter Nine
    In a chamber atop a morgue attached to an Albuquerque hospital two rubber-apron clad cutters sat on stools at their stainless steel work station tables. It was the cutters’ job to harvest ligaments, tendons, and other tissue from the continuing stream of human remains donated to the hospital’s Willed Body program. Once excised, the flesh would be packaged and transported to a nearby