"Both of you be quiet. If Sam's sick I have to open up the parameters of his rhythms..." Gooshie trailed off, pecking at buttons. As soon as he started to grin, Ziggy piped up again.

"Thank you. Dr. Beckett is in a warehouse in Brooklyn in New York City. It is February 27, 2001, and he is neither dead nor ill."

"Then what's wrong with him?" Al asked, pausing on his way to the imaging chamber.

"Cocaine. Lots of it."

Swiss cheese, swiss cheese, swiss cheese... I really need to sit down.

"Don't shoot!" the thing on the floor in front of him screamed. "I'm a cop!"

This is bad, this is bad... "This is bad." Why does that mean anything to me? Sam came up next to the thing, trying to punch through whatever was wrong with him enough to figure out what it was. It was a guy. He was bleeding. "This is bad."

"No shit," the man in front of him hissed. "Get back with the program, Denby."

"What?"

"Get me out of here!"

Sam stood up again, wandering around aimlessly. Do what? How do I do this? Before he could think about it, everything jumbled again and his heart raced. "What the hell is wrong with me!?"

Finally, something he could place as a familiar voice came from behind him. "Coke, Sam. And whoever you are seems to like it a lot."

Sam turned around. Al... Al... He'll know. He'll know how to get this guy out. He'll know how to get me out. "Where am I? Where am I!?"

Al took a glance up from the handlink long enough to see what Sam held in his hand. "That's not gonna work on me, buddy."

Sam looked down and had a sudden flash of clarity. "I'm pointing a gun at my holographic best friend."

From behind him, he heard, "What the hell are you babbling about? Are you high?"