“Listen,” Ian said. “If Nicole Thibodeaux is ninety years old no psychotherapy is going to help me.” “You’re that much involved emotionally with her? A woman you’ve never seen? That’s schizophrenic. Because the fact is you’re involved with—” Al gestured. “An illusion. Something synthetic, unreal.” “What’s unreal and what’s real? To me she’s more real than anything else; then you, even. Even than myself, my own life.” “Holy smoke,” Al said. He was impressed. “Well, at least you have something to live for.” “Right,” Ian said, and nodded.
