Channing H. DeVallette is momentarily dead. She is not capable of anything except mindless disobedience. Her prescription: -Hours of loud, obnoxious typing at unheard of times during the night. May cause slight annoyances among residents of her current household. There is no need to worry; she will most likely be cured within a matter of days. Be forewarned, however, that this "mindless disobedience" could last for weeks, months, years, or even a lifetime. It is all just a matter of WHO SHE IS. Channing held the crumpled piece of notice paper between her sweaty fingers. It was addressed to her, and the date at the top was only yesterday. But the manner in which it was crumpled was no ordinary "I'll worry about this bit of nonsense tomorrow" crumpling. It was an aged yellowy color with a waxy covering of which was quickly peeling off. It looked as if it had been stuck between the cracks of an old abandoned building for a century at least. She would have believed this theory, too, if it hadn't have been for the date. Yesterday? It was impossible, and Channing was no slave to the unimaginable. She was a young woman of simple science, and simply science told her that the doctor's note was just some practical joke being played upon her. On top of that, she was a strong believer in the lawful rulings of her parents, her siblings, and her politicians. "Mindless disobedience" was just absurd.