She lets herself in. The room is dark except for the flickering television light, which is broadcasting the same thing that the monitors in the lobby were: the Countdown to 2000. She can see Dmitrovitch, and, as before, the sight makes her shudder: his legs are still fused with this piece of expensive technology, this machine, so real that there is no hope of arguing with it. She sits down at his bedside and looks into his troubled sleeping face. Then she looks up at the TV for a few minutes.
She watches a montage of crowd scenes from around the world: New York, LA, London, Paris, Cairo. They are all the same. A surge of bodies, pressing against one another, reaching: Samantha cannot imagine what they might think they are striving towards.
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