It was what you thought was real that made it so, not the other way around.
"I've killed my wife!" Linton called, rising from his knees, stretching his hands out to something.
The pain stung him to sleep—a pain in his neck like a needle that left a hole big enough for a camel to pass through and big enough for him to follow the camel in his turn.
He opened his eyes to the doctor's spotless, well-ordered office. The doctor looked down at him consolingly. "You'll have to go back, Mr. Linton. But they'll cure you. You'll be cured of ever thinking your wife was brought back to life and that you killed her all over again."
"Do you really think so, Doctor?" Linton asked hopefully.