Steve struggled against the two guards who held him still, but he was too weak to fight them off. One of them forced his mouth open and the white-coated man poured the red liquid into his mouth. Steve tried to spit it out, but the guards held his head back until the liquid nearly choked him.

"Let him go," the doctor said. He had nothing to fear - not with Steve's arms tied behind his back and not with him weak from the months of starvation and beatings. The doctor and the guards left the room, leaving Steve alone, wondering what this batch of sludge would do to him.

What the- The thought barely registered as he felt his body went numb, then thousands of stingers began to jab at his legs, arms and back. They seemed to inject fire into his body; he broke out in a sweat. His right leg shuddered and, though he tried to remain standing, but he stumbled, landing awkwardly on his side.

What's happening to me? Steve tried to yell, but the words did not come. His mouth would not work. His tongue felt like it was rooted to the floor of his mouth. And the room was getting dark; he tried to blink, but his eye wasn't working right.

And then the pain ripped through him. The fiery injection suddenly flamed outward. Steve tried to scream. Maybe he did, but he could not hear his screams. His body shook and he writhed on the floor.

Make it stop. God, please make it stop.

"Make it stop!" Steve shouted.

"It's okay, Steve."

Steve jerked his head, shocked to realize that he was not lying on the floor of the compound, but sitting on a couch in a room filled with bookshelves. His heart was pounding. Where am I? he wondered.

"Look at me, Steve."

For the first time, since the - memory? flashback? - he saw the gray-haired man with the goatee in the chair a few feet away. His index finger was just over a foot away from Steve. Dr. Friedman.

"It's not working," Steve said, between gasps. He could still feel the pain.

Dr. Friedman smiled softly. "It is working, Steve. Your eye followed my fingers as we went through the memory."

"Went through the memory?" Steve shook his head. "I went through the memory. We didn't do anything."

"Remember what I told you," Dr. Friedman said. "At first, it may feel like you're reliving the memory. But as the treatment progresses, that will change."

Steve's heart was still pounding. That was what the doctor had told him in their second session, where they discussed some of Steve's memories of his captivity. They had decided to begin with the recent one with the poison. Dr. Friedman thought that Steve's ability to discuss that incident without a flashback made it a good starting point to see how Steve reacted to the treatment. They could leave the more traumatic memories for follow-up sessions.

That was an easy memory? Steve wondered. The pain from the drug was receding, but he was still aware of it. "I'm not sure . . . . Maybe this isn't the right thing."

"Most patients have that reaction," Dr. Friedman explained. "It's natural. But trust me. I've seen this plenty of times and you were responding to the treatment."

Steve shook his head. "How could I respond to it? You didn't do anything."

Dr. Friedman chuckled. "You weren't aware of me talking," he aid. "You told me all about the guards, and them forcing you to drink the liquid, and what did it to you. I guided you to that point."

Steve was bewildered. "You did?"

Dr. Friedman nodded. "I did." He seemed to study Steve for a moment, perhaps waiting for Steve's breathing and heart-rate to return to normal. "Now, Steve . . . we're going to start again from the beginning." He held his finger up in front of Steve's eye. "I want you to focus on my finger." He waited for Steve to comply. "Okay, so let's go back to the room. The guards have tied your hands."

"My hands are tied behind my back, and they're holding me." Once again, Steve's mind began to replay the memory. The guard forced his mouth open and the doctor poured the red sludge down his throat.

"Keep your eye on my finger," the doctor said in Dr. Friedman's voice. Then he ordered the guard to let Steve go.

Steve was walking slowly, his arms behind him. Then he jerked and looked down at his legs. Steve could feel some of the numbness, then some of the pins-and-needles. His leg seemed to spasm and he was falling.

"That's right, Steve. And then what did you feel?"

"I got hot, started sweating," he replied. "Then it hurt. Oh, it hurt." He felt the pain, but it was distant, more achy than sharp. His tongue felt heavy and he struggled to see.

"Keep your eye on my finger." Something was wavering between Steve's eye and the door of the lab.

Steve remembered shaking as the tremors overcame him. He remembered the pain increasing, growing sharper. He had been shaking, twisting on the floor, begging silently for it to stop.

And then it did. He was no longer shaking. But he could not move. He had no strength to stand. He could not even lift an arm. He gasped for breath. It felt like someone had dropped a load of bricks on his chest. Each breath was a struggle. He continued gasping, sucking weakly for air. The breaths were coming more slowly.

I'm dying.

"Follow my finger," said the calming voice.

Steve tried, but he could not see it. His eye was nearly closed. He let out a choking breath.

"You're not dying, Steve. Just keep watching my finger."

Unable to move, barely breathing, Steve laid there and watched the finger move in front of his eye. I should be dead, he thought. But he wasn't. He lay there, his shallow, pained breaths barely causing his chest to rise. But it was enough to keep the oxygen flowing.

Then he was being dragged to his feet and held aloft by the guards. The doctor poured another liquid down his throat, which Steve could not even think about spitting out.

"Take him away," ordered the doctor, and the guard dragged him from the room.

"Steve?"

Steve looked up to see Dr. Friedman and his finger again. He was not shaking and, even though he was barely able to breathe in the memory, his heart rate and breathing were only a little faster than normal.

"Did I do it, Doc?"

"That was better," Dr. Friedman said. "Did the memory seem different from before?"

"Kinda . . . especially at first." For a moment, Steve struggled to describe how, before he finally said. "Before . . . it was like I was there. It was happening to me just like in that camp. But this time . . . It was like a movie, dude. Like it was happening to me and I was seeing it through my eye, but it also wasn't." Then he thought some more. "At least, that's how it was for the first part. At the end, it felt some of the way it did earlier. Like I was back to being there, going through it all over again." Steve was perplexed. "Does that make any sense?"

Dr. Friedman nodded. "Complete sense. In our earlier attempt, you did not get to the end, so this is the first time you're experiencing that particular part of the memory. But you made great progress on the first half, which was the part we repeated. That sense of seeing it like a movie. That's the desensitization we are trying to create. In fact, I would say your progress was exceptional." He paused and looked at his watch. "I think that's may be enough for today."

"No . . . wait," Steve insisted. "If I made such great progress on the first half, then won't it be even better after another try. If we can go through the whole memory for a second time."

"That is how the therapy works."

"Then come on, Doc. One more time." I can do this, Steve thought. I just need to keep working. "Maybe we can get to the end again and it will feel different."

Dr. Friedman seemed to debate the idea silently, but finally said, "Okay . . . Once more."

He held his finger in front of Steve's eye. "Now focus your eye on my finger, Steve. That's right. Focus. Let's go back to that room, in the lab." Dr. Friedman's finger began to move in figure eight. "Your hands are tied behind you, Steve, and the guards are holding you up. . . . That's right, Steve."

"Now keep your eye on my finger."