I noticed her sitting on the floor, ostensibly engrossed in that large paperback copy of Paradise Lost she toted about. I surmised a diagnosis of schizophrenia, with passages from Milton lending morbid authenticity to the religious themes likely dominating her delusions. "I'm not," she declared, without looking up. "Psychotic. Not really." There was no one else on the ward close enough to hear, but I couldn't tell whether her remark was directed towards me. I studied her face as she continued to read. Pretty, with dark hair, like an older Flippa Giordano; but oblivious by all indications, apparently mumbling sporadic denials to herself. Then, as if taking exception to my line of thought, she looked up. "I'm not psychotic," she repeated. And I seated myself on the opposite side of the hall (as she studied me). "You look better," she observed frankly, "Last week, when you got here, you looked... Emotionally bedraggled." I nodded while asking myself what type of person uses the word "bedraggled." But given these occlusive surroundings and this woman's apparent affinity for seventeenth-century epic poems... "I imagine so." She wet her lips, "You don't remember much, do you?" It wasn't a question, but I shook my head in response. "I never thought I would end up in a place like this." Which prompted from her an expression of confusion (or perhaps concern). "Most of us here don't regard it as the end," she insisted. "Even so, there are worse places. I mean, we've got plenty of chess sets, so... Could be worse." I sighed... "Good book?" She thought for a moment, then shrugged, "For those up to the undertaking." I nodded with a tenuous grin (my first since December). "I wonder if that's the appeal of poetry," she mused, "The sense of accomplishment one feels after deciphering particularly cryptic verse. Like a crossword." Then, as if interrupting herself, she added, "Not all poetry is like that, of course. Some you read through once, effortlessly, and just... Well, it's so... You know." I nodded, "But Milton... Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree... Hardly a theme that lends itself to triviality." To which she countered thoughtfully, "Fruit and disobedience are vulgar fare; the stuff of television and Shakespeare. But that mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe. Ay, there's the rub." She paused a moment, then said, "I don't believe I'm any more disobedient than the rest. But I have an acute sense of taste." Her eyes narrowed, "So do you. Otherwise you wouldn't be here." ...which abruptly churned those feral emotions in their depths. All my woe. (And more.) She crawled over to my side of the hall. "I'm Kryës," she said, "And I'm not psychotic. No more than you, anyway." I returned her introduction, and equivocally added, "I would not have labeled you deranged." Kryëstyne pursed her lips, "We don't all foam at the mouth here." And I suddenly felt bad, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." But she touched my arm and said, "It's okay. I've been known to watch the clock for my next dose of Thorazine, especially between rounds of shock therapy." I forced a tentative smile, unsure of whether she was serious or not. "Come with me," she suggested. I followed her towards the station (which, unbeknownst to me, she had been keeping under surveillance while we talked). With no one at the desk, she walked behind the counter and disappeared into the staff lounge. I hesitated in the hallway. "Come on," she insisted, just above a whisper, "No one can hold us accountable here." So, I followed her behind the medication locker and into a narrow stairwell. She gestured with a finger to her lips, then carefully closed the door against a mangled stainless steel clipboard, preventing it from latching, and proceeded to climb. Four flights later, she pushed open the final door and stepped out onto the roof. An icy wind hit me, and I suddenly realized that I had not been outside in a very long time. Snow still hugged a barrier along the edge of the building, and the pebbled deck was sodden with large puddles. The sky was heavily overcast, but proffered nonetheless that luminescence so dreadfully absent from indoor light. "Looks like February," I observed. "Or March," Kryës offered, "I'm not sure myself." We walked to the edge and beheld the vista from thirteen floors. Neither of us spoke for several minutes. Then: "Midway on our life's journey, I found myself in dark woods," I finally admitted, "the right road lost. To tell about those woods is hard -- so tangled and rough and savage that thinking of it now, I feel the old fear stirring: Death is hardly more bitter." She pursed her lips and echoed, "Hardly more bitter. That mortal taste." She squinted at the horizon as wind blew strands of hair across her face, "Pinsky," she reflected, "My favorite translation." (I imagined she was equally familiar with Dante's Italian.) "But," she warned sternly, "I caution you in selecting your Virgil." (Ah, but The Poet was chosen for Dante, sent as a guide through that most gruesome of passages. Apparently Kryës had not been told.) "Of course, you could jump," she said, looking down at the concrete and asphalt, "That's the obvious path; directly into those dark woods with some ingenuous hope of coming out the other side." Such a seductive notion... I shuddered as the icy wind coursed through me, one step away from a few blissful seconds of flight (that final endorphin fix) and the direct path to eternity. "Or the arduous route," I pondered, "Following you back down into the depths of this... Institution." She pressed her eyes shut, and I noticed a tear graze her cheek. Another gust of wind, and in likely defiance of any etiquette imposed here, I put my arms around her. "Please don't follow me," she begged, pressing her face into my chest, "Please... I can't guide you, lost as I am. I can't... It's only fear that keeps me in this world." I pressed my face into her hair, "Don't be afraid," I whispered. We embraced tightly for several minutes or more, neither of us speaking. Finally, we parted, and I watched as she stepped up onto the narrow retaining wall at the building's edge. She paused, contemplating the lethal drop. Slowly, she stretched her arms out to each side and stood frozen in the wind, then shifted her weight forward, decisively. I clamped my eyes shut, envisioning her four-second descent. Her flesh stopped dead against concrete, but her soul kept falling. Alone again. In those dark woods, I picked up her bedraggled copy of Paradise Lost. "Good bye, Kryës."