The dining room looks nearly identical to the activity room, similarly devoid of decoration or identifying characteristics. The only difference is the long counter that separates this space from the kitchen. We stand in line now, waiting for medication and food.

I want to inform the orderly that my intelligence is well above the level necessary for using multimillion-dollar equipment, electron microscopes. That I have designed re-programmable multi-functional manipulators. That I am more than capable of using a fork.

But then I remind myself of what I have done to earn this experience, and I accept the flimsy spoon. I know that it is designed to be harmless for patients in institutions like this. I am tempted to suggest that it is also designed to be nearly impossible to use, but that is illogical. It is an emotional reaction to how much more difficult it will be for me than the others here.

There is a seat available next to Will. I take it.

And as always, it seems that all I can do here is think.

They must have been in dire need of my services, because rather than going through regular 9-week Basic Training plus a few months of Advanced Individual Training, I found myself on a transport destined for the Middle East after only three weeks of accelerated instruction.

I settled in as best I could. It was not easy, as the other soldiers tended to have more advanced social skills, and I was quickly labeled "weird." But aside from the location and the people, the work was the same. I identified badly damaged or decomposed human remains. As much as I missed my colleagues at the Jeffersonian, it was an exhilarating challenge to be working independently. I was regularly called upon to challenge my thinking, even more important because there was only my one brain to process the evidence.

"You work with dead people?" Will asks.

With human skeletons, yes. They don't usually still look much like people. It is easier to dissociate when there isn't much blood.

Death is frequently hidden away in our society, and my job, while being highly important, is not widely considered desirable. So I am used to being ignored. I am comfortable in solitude. And I was content with my solitude, spending my time reading, working on academic papers, writing to my family, my friends from the Jeffersonian. The staff psychologist was not very pleased with the fact that I tended to not associate much with the other, the live personnel on the base.

I struggle to make the mechanical prostheses grip the spoon. It slips repeatedly to the tray, the hard plastic unwilling to adapt itself to the flimsy spoon. I occasionally manage to get a bite of food to my mouth in the utensil by using both hands. I get enough sustenance, but I have lost weight in my time here.

I didn't much care for the food on the base. Military rations aren't known for being particularly appetizing, but they were adequate. We would occasionally have meals outside on days when it wasn't too warm. About a week after I'd arrived, we had one of our rare barbecues. I sat alone on a patch of grass beneath a tree, observing the social interaction. A game of touch football was underway and half the soldiers had removed their shirts to designate their association with one team. The game was interesting, but puzzling, they didn't appear to be following many formalized rules.

I'd dropped my eyes to reach for my cup of water when I heard someone yell, "Heads up!"

My plate exploded in front of me. When I looked down, potato salad covered my shirt and I could smell the barbecue sauce that was splattered all over my face. The football bounced twice and rolled to a stop nearby.

The mocking snickers around me were only half hidden as I surveyed the remains of my lunch in shock. But they were wiped clear from my mind when a sparkling female laugh reached my ears.

"Hey, are you alright?"

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