A Vision of Fire

“I’ll bet they used those very words, too,” Caitlin said. “ ‘Period of unavailability.’”

“Why say ‘absence’ when you can use something big and formidable? Just throw a little oil on those troubled waters, will you?”

“Yeah. I’ll e-mail them, explain that these clients are exhibiting a desperate level of trauma.”

“Suicidal?”

“I don’t think so,” Caitlin replied, “but they are highly unpredictable.”

“Well, remind Lauren and Phil about our liability unless we commit our assets—namely you—to the problem, and they’ll back off,” Anita said. She fixed Caitlin with a knowing look. “Want to talk about any of it?”

“Maybe later,” Caitlin said, unable to reveal who she was treating. “I’m beat, I’ll tell you that much. How’s everybody else doing?”

“We’re in a pretty quiet phase right now,” Anita replied. “There’s still a couple weeks before the stress of December exams hits.”

“So you haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary?”

Anita shook her head. “Anything specific on your mind?”

“No, I was just wondering.”

“Lady, you never just wonder. What is it?”

Caitlin made a You got me face. “The tension between India and Pakistan. It seems to be knocking people off balance.”

“A couple of the kids mentioned that, but there’s so much hyperbole on the Web it’s tough to know what’s a real or a passing fear. A celebrity dies in a car crash, kids are afraid of cars for a day or two or three. Speaking of which, when you have the time, I want to talk about setting up focus groups on shared Internet and social media paranoia.”

“I like the idea,” Caitlin said. “Shared angst.”

“It’s like terrier frenzy,” Anita said. “One dog gets upset, so another dog gets upset because that dog is upset, making the first dog even more upset.”

“Right, you have two Jack Russells,” Caitlin said. “Do they do that a lot?”

“Every time the doorbell rings,” she said. “Funny thing is, for all its problems I bless the Internet every day, no exaggeration. The more cases I read, the more analysis that’s offered, the more I feel we can help people.”

Caitlin thanked her again for her help and began walking home. She was glad to hear that Anita’s dogs weren’t behaving out of the ordinary. She had enough trouble worrying about people without adding more animals into the mix. She kept wondering, though, about what Anita had said in relation to mass anxiety.

What’s that word for when a group turns this way and then that at the same time?

“Flocking,” that was it. Coming together in a group, banding for mutual protection from a danger, from fears that linger like a low, slow hum.

Like Neanderthals in their caves, she thought. Our brains have evolved but our bodies are still locked in the Pleistocene.

Caitlin suddenly felt as cold as if a deep winter wind had raced down the street toward her, but it wasn’t from thoughts of the Ice Age. It was an idea gleaned from what Anita had said. Banding together in a group happened not just in person but also through computers and phones and Wi-Fi. What if millions and millions of teenagers had flocked to the Internet and social media over the past twenty years not just because it made them feel like masters of their caves, carving their universe into manageable pieces. What if there actually was an external threat, barely sensed, that was causing them to flock like birds? What if Maanik and Gaelle and possibly Atash and who knew how many others were the first to semiconsciously pick up those signals?

My god, she thought. Were they that close to the cliff, as Ben had said? Was Pakistan the imminent threat? Was it a big enough threat for the type of global reaction she was envisioning? Or were they reacting to something else? Something bigger?

And if so, what on earth could that be?

CHAPTER 21

^{Motahhari Hospital, Tehran}

Atash Gulshan had been taken off the ventilator the day before, so the hospital room was unusually hushed. Now and then the corridors echoed with a rattling instrument trolley. Outside there was little traffic; it was one of the high-pollution days when only hospitals and banks stayed open. A sickly yellow-gray smog filled the window, partly obscuring the trees of the courtyard below.

The room had only the one patient. Two female nurses in blue uniforms and black scarves were changing the dressings on Atash’s legs. They worked silently, hoping not to be noticed and caught up in yet another argument about women tending to men. This relatively small hospital had not fared well against the national shortage of male nurses, yet the women’s service to Atash still provoked a debate with the male doctor whenever he visited. The end of the argument was always the same, the doctor shaking his head and saying, “For the brother of a criminal, I suppose it doesn’t matter who ministers to him. Change the bandages.”