Alone, on a sterile, starkly white surgeon's table lies a brain. Usually, one would imagine a brain to be slick and pulsing with brain juice, but this one is dry. Almost shriveled.Attached to the brain is a little tube which is connected to a glass jar. One wouldn't think that a tube leading from a brain to a jar would have any label at all, but it does. It's labeled "Comps."
The glass jar is full of juice. Considering the circumstances and the surroundings, one would imagine it to be labeled "Brain Juice," but it isn't. It's labeled "Sanity."
Suddenly, someone enters. One would imagine him to be a person donned in latex gloves and a sterile, white lab coat, with a surgical mask around his nose and mouth. But no, it's a young woman in a denim skirt. She's gangly, with puffy hair and a cleft chin. She looks like a grad student. Stealthily, she goes over the the table. She fights the waves of nausea from the sight of a dry, disembodied brain and the unfamiliar, briny odor of the juice. "But I must," she says, and takes out an eyedropper.
Drop by drop, she re-moistens the brain. It takes her an entire week. If a week could have a label, it would read "Spring Break."
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