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Walking helped.  It bled off the red-hot edge of the anger and left it defanged, but still palpable, over her head, as if she were towing a balloon of poisonous gas.  She wasn't sure where she was going until she got on the El, and then she wasn't sure what she was doing until she stood at the edge of the lawn surrounding Mentano Psychiatric Hospital.  It was like standing in Smith's doorway, waiting to be noticed.

Thinking that, she knocked--incapable of telepathy but able to send the blunt gist of her desire to talk to him.

After a few minutes, the tall thin man makes his way out of the darkness across the lawn to where Sylvia stands.  They are seperated by the wrought iron bars of the fence, and so many more things, yet here they were.  He looked hollow, like a man that never slept, and the odd shadows thrown about by the security lights didn't help the image any. 

Why did you come here?

She didn't mean to make him leave the building, and she's immediately sorry.  "I needed somewhere to be."  She tells him, in a blur of images quicker and truer than speech, what happened.  The anger's still there.  Its steamy breath is still on the back of her neck, and it turns what she says into a disjointed mess.  "I thought it'd be dangerous if I stayed around people.  He talked to me like he owned me.  And then the dragon and the--he threw a tantrum.  He talked to me like he owned me."

Talking isn't helping, at least not yet.  The rage is building again, filling her head.  Overflowing it.  Her ears ring.

It wasn't a recrimination, only a question.  I'm not sure what force brought you here, or why I care.

He reaches between the bars of the fence and takes her hand.  There is a soft hum that rises in tone and clarity until she realizes it's all the minds in teh hospital, rambling along in their sleep.

I'm glad for the company.  Now, tell me about him.  I take it this kind of thing isn't normal for him.

She's grateful for the human contact, and the chorus of dreams is an oddly soothing antidote to the anger.  If anger isolates, shuts you off from others and even from the tempering influence of your own heart, then its cure might be a gentle reminder of humanity's hidden commonality.  She sighs.  "He's been strange lately.  He's been kind of . . . scary.  He's been scary.  Just a little.  I thought it was just jealousy.  Tonight was different, like he was someone else, someone dangerous."

"The dragons aren't frightening."  As the anger dissipates, worry asserts itself.  "It's him.  There's something wrong with him.  Or maybe there was always something wrong with him.  I don't know.  He's just not what I thought he was."

"Safe," she says after a moment.  "Normal.  I felt normal with him.  I don't know why.  I felt like the world was normal."

It may be true.  She admits it without saying it.  "It doesn't change the fact that something weird is happening to him.  It doesn't change the fact that he totally lost it."  Then she feels the heat of that adolescent anger come back with a snap, but this time it's all right.  Smith can take it.  "It doesn't change the fact that I didn't do anything!  I didn't mean to hurt anybody.  I didn't do anything!"

"What are you saying?  You're saying I pushed him?"  The bottom of her stomach falls away.  "You're saying I've been pushing him?"  The noise that comes out of her is a little like a whimper, the noise the throat makes when the brain can't manage words.

It feels like ice, this feeling.  She's not sure what to call it really, but it's like the feeling you get when you look off the edge of a building and, just for a moment, want to throw yourself from it.  "People have been saying hi," she says, voice little and lost.  "What do I do?  How do I stop it?"

Blow your brains out.

There is a pause, and he gives her hand a squeeze.

Or you learn to control it.  Like learning to control your breathing, it's automatic, but you can change it to your will.

"I've been trying," she says, holding tight to his hand.  Her eyes are closed, squeezed shut, and she's dropped her forehead against the cold iron of the fence.  "I can't.  I don't know how.  How do I do it?  Can you teach me?  I can't make it stop."

You really want me to help you?  Sylvia feels the sense of confusion from him, like he's not sure why she'd ask him.

She opens her eyes and looks him in the face.  She's done a fair bit of crying this evening, and she's doing her best not to tear up now.  It gives her a stern, desperate look.  "Who else am I going to ask?  Who helped you?"

No one.  Because there was no one.  He gives her hand a squeeze.  The first thing is to go home and get some rest.  You're frazzeled, we wont be able to leanr anything tonight.

A frenzy of urgency swims up in reply.  She wants to start now.  She wants to fix it now.  Holding back her emotions has been like holding back the ocean.  No matter how firm she stands, no matter how wide she stretches her arms, it's an impossible task.

But then, in a reflex, she smashes down the panic, tries to cap the worry, and nods.  "Right.  Home.  I should go home."  At least the anger is gone for the moment.  She takes a long, shuddery breath and doesn't feel it clamping down on her shoulders and chest.  "Thank you."