Ninety minutes before, Mielikki Neith stares into her morning mirror, feeling the vertiginous uncertainty that sometimes comes with viewing one’s own image, the inability to understand the meaning of her reflected face. She repeats her name, quite softly but with growing emphasis, hearing the noise and yet unable to connect it with the self she feels. Not that she is anyone else: not that any other collection of syllables or features would be better. It is the intermediation of physicality and naming, of being represented in biology or language, that doesn’t sit with her in this disconnected instant. She knows it is simply a lingering trace of the dream state, but that does not alter her conviction—inappropriately cellular, felt in blood and bone—that something is wrong.