“Have a seat,” squeaks Leopold in his best falsetto. “The doctor will be right in.”

Corba nods and shifts on the crinkly paper. Leopold ducks outside and rips off the wig, pulls off the scrubs over his shirt and slacks, unbinds his corset and slaps at his mascara with an astringent pad. He moves the moustache from the back of his neck onto his face, clears his throat, and re-enters.

“Hello, doctor,” says Corba. “That was quick.”

Leopold permits himself a smile.

“Still shows no signs of recognition,” sighs the first agent, watching.

“What, is she blind?” says the second.