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Baddeley that the room could not be as it appeared to be, its dimensions making it impossible to fit between the fourth and sixth floors of the Toronto Western.
    As much as Baddeley feared the madness of others, he was even more terrified of losing his own sanity. At the “absorption” of Avery Andrews, he looked away, as if he’d inadvertently seen something taboo. No sooner did he look away, however, than 55 A turned into a typical ward: a ceiling ten feet above them with four banks of fluorescent lights; four beds, all of them occupied; a window looking out on another wing of the hospital, beyond which he could see more buildings and smoke rising from a tall chimney.
    Standing beside the patient in the bed furthest from the door was Avery Andrews. In the bed was a very old man or, perhaps, a young one with a long, white beard. It was difficult to “read” the patient, but something about the man did not feel old. Without moving his lips or at all shifting position, the whitebeard said
    â€“ Come closer.
    It was as if a statue had spoken. There was no doubt that the “statue” had spoken to him , however. So, warily, and still shaken by his vision of Andrews’ absorption by the impossible room, Baddeley approached.
    â€“ You’re interested in poetry, said the patient.
    Once again, the patient’s lips did not move. It was both uncanny and fascinating.
    â€“ It is better if you don’t look at me, said the patient. I am not where you see me, but I am close.
    â€“ Look out the window, said Andrews.
    And Baddeley noticed that Avery Andrews had turned away from the patient, had all the while been observing the smoke as it writhed from the chimney — bringing to Baddeley’s mind a thin, old woman struggling out of a stone boot. The world could not be as he was now experiencing it and still be the world. Therefore, he had lost his mind, or some drug — mysteriously administered — had taken it from him.
    The patient said
    â€“ It wouldn’t make any difference if you did lose your mind.
    Alexander Baddeley felt light-headed. The room spun 290 degrees and the floor politely rose to meet him. What met him first, however, was the laughter of the patient — the last sound he heard before he lost consciousness. No, that’s too easily said: “he lost consciousness.” As if something were taken away. In this instance, it would be truer to say that Alexander Baddeley gained a consciousness that, manifestly, was not his own. He fell to the floor, but instead of darkness there came ... not voices, exactly, but a presence, something like the soundless manifestation of a collective. There on the floor with him, a knot of red ants were at work carrying off the remnants of a crust of bread, and it seemed to Baddeley that he would have given anything to be one of them. That is, he experienced the purposeful delicacy of “mindlessness.”
    How long he spent both inside and beside himself, Baddeley never learned. After a time, he woke in Andrews’ house on Cowan. Judging by the light coming through the windows, hours or perhaps minutes had passed. There was sunlight but, for some reason, Baddeley imagined it was evening. He was on the living room sofa. Andrews was standing above him.
    â€“ What happened? Baddeley asked.
    Avery Andrews looked down at him, all sympathy.
    â€“ Don’t look at Him, he said. And try not to speak. Look out the window or keep your eyes closed. There’s nothing to see, anyway.
    â€“ But what happened?
    â€“ You’ve been out for a while. I didn’t know where you’d gone. I found you here, because He told me you’d be here. It could have been worse. I was gone for three days the first time He spoke to me. But don’t think about that. You want to write, don’t you?
    At that moment, Baddeley had no idea what he wanted and no clear idea how he felt. He was concerned for his state of mind. Had