The viceroy knelt. “Someone call 9-1-1. And someone get me a blanket or a coat or something… and a pen.”

“What’s he saying, Viceroy?”

He put his ear close to Dolo’s mouth. “He keeps repeating the same words over and over again: ’don’t put me in the box.’”

A jacket manifested from somewhere in the crowd. The viceroy folded it and carefully placed it under Dolo’s head, cushioning it from the cold concrete floor. The pen appeared shortly after. The viceroy, with assistance from one of the men of the audience, managed with some difficulty to force Dolo’s jaws open and place the pen between his teeth to prevent him from further biting his tongue.

“We’ll have to turn him onto his side. He’s swallowing a lot of his own blood.”

“Epilepsy?”

“I don’t think so. There was quite a crack when his head struck the floor. He seems to be having some kind of psychotic fit. He thinks there’s some kind of box that he’s being forced into. Poor soul. The only box is the one that he’s constructed in his mind.”