Simon studies the scans of River's brain with the intensity of a penitent approaching his god - both in awe and in fear. Her brain is painted in shades of primal red, not the calming greens and yellows of normal brain function.

The images perplex him, almost disgust him. They are like abstract art, which he has always hated with a passion. His father felt the same way, which is why he had only ever bought one piece of it, what Simon called his ego piece. His father, laughing, agreed, but took pride in showing off his artistic masterpiece to his friends. Simon preferred landscapes and portraits, works of delicate brushstrokes, refined details.

River never liked that kind of art, found it boring whenever their parents dragged them along to some big museum gala or exhibit. She called them memories of Earth that was, and ran on to the modern galleries. Simon would follow her, because he always followed her - in intelligence, in daring, into trouble. She would stare intently at each piece, before dancing away to the next, inciting the suspicion of the guards, whom Simon would try to distract with composed, adult behavior.

"River," he would say, in his best imitation of his father. "I think you need to show a little more decorum. This is a museum, after all."

"Don't be such a bore, Simon!" River would reply, dancing around what appeared to be a chunk of melted metal. "Can't you see it?"

He never could.

-------------------------------------------------------

River sat in her room, frowning at the wall. Her hair hung lank in her face, her eyes unfocused and mouth twisted in a scowl.

"River?" Simon asked, edging into the room. "How are you feeling?"

She turned on him, face contorted by anger. "How do I feel? How do you think I feel?" River began swaying back and forth with violent force. "Two by two, hands of blue. Two by two, hands of blue."

Simon grabbed her arms, almost bruising. "River, stop it! They can't find you here. We're safe, for the moment." He moved quickly, while she was still