In the quiet, wood-paneled office of Dr. Buckelton’s private clinic, the afternoon light filtered softly through the heavy curtains. Miss Jessica Oliver sat upright in the high-backed armchair, her red dress neat, her posture professional as always. The chrome lamp overhead glowed with a strange, steady green light, casting an unnatural hue across her face and the patterned fabric of the chair.

Dr. Buckelton stood behind her, adjusting the cuff on her arm and the coiled black tube connected to the gleaming machine on the desk. A strip of paper fed slowly from it, marking jagged lines that recorded whatever the device was doing.

“You’ll enjoy being a two year-old,” he said calmly, his voice low and certain.