And Jacob says, “…my soul, you know?”

“Your soul?” Reid takes a deep breath and clears his head, but the bizarre late night idea is still there.

“Yeah. My soul.”

Just near them, not two hundred yards off, is the Columbia medical unit specializing in neurosurgical repair. It is there where the brain is cut across and bilaterally that this question of the soul is coming to the knife.

“I don’t know, Reid. We’re networks of neurons, you know?”

“No. Not just that.”


“I hear you, Reid. You don’t think I can, but I do.”

Yes, I know

“I know you know, you bastard.”