After hours of bending over the table, starring at the screen, the green prompt continued to demand immediate input. My fingers slowed to a stop, unable to make a decision on their own, and my mind blanked.

I stared down at my hands on the keyboard.

Have my fingers ever made a decision on their own? I thought of "Mad Love" with Peter Lorre. Now there were some fingers that acted of their own free will. I raised my hands and inspected my wrists as if expecting to find tell-tale signs of surgery. There was none.

"Mr. Twombley?"

I pretended not to hear the soft spoken voice coming from the overhead speaker. Could I be as mad as Doctor Gogol in "Mad Love"? Or was I more like one of Doctor Gogol's victims of jealousy?

"Mr. Towmbley. You've stopped typing. You know the rules."

I looked up at where the inanimate voice was coming from -- the only voice they allowed me to hear.

"You seem tense. Do you need five minutes of porno?"

"Ahh shut up!" I whispered to myself, trying to be calm, hoping the hidden microphones wouldn't pick it up.

I pushed myself back from the table, got up, crossed the room, and opened the window. Taking a deep breath, the sharp cold air of late fall felt bitingly chilly against my skin, yet like fire in my lungs. I exhaled. Cold steam wafted and hung in the air. The distinct sense of impending snow was all about.

I glanced back at the screen; the screensaver was already playing with the boundaries of the monitor.

"Mr. Twombley?"

I ignored it.

I seem to recall there was a time when I could grab my keys and jacket in such a situation and be gone in a flash. Out, out into the cold, walking briskly with a sense of purpose in my stride.