"You must help me!" the voice insisted.
Anders sat up, reached for a polished shoe and fitted it on, giving his full attention to the tying of the laces.
"Can you hear me?" the voice asked. "You can, can't you?"
That did it. "Yes, I can hear you," Anders said, still in a high good humor. "Don't tell me you're my guilty subconscious, attacking me for a childhood trauma I never bothered to resolve. I suppose you want me to join a monastery."
"I don't know what you're talking about," the voice said. "I'm no one's subconscious. I'm me. Will you help me?"
Anders believed in voices as much as anyone; that is, he didn't believe in them at all, until he heard them. Swiftly he catalogued the possibilities. Schizophrenia was the best answer, of course, and one in which his colleagues would concur. But Anders had a lamentable confidence in his own sanity. In which case—
"Who are you?" he asked.
"I don't know," the voice answered.
Anders realized that the voice was speaking within his own mind. Very suspicious.
"You don't know who you are," Anders stated. "Very well. Where are you?"