The room was lit by a single fixture of florescent tube lights; their persistent low hum and the occasional tap of a ball point pen were the only sounds. The interviewer paused his writing and extracted another cigarette from the pack on the table. He reached again into his breast pocket for the matchbox. In silence, he lit the cigarette. "Are you ready to begin phase two?" He asked, after his first drag. The acrid smoke quickly began to fill the small room. I shifted nervously in my chair as my eyes began to water. "Yes, please." The interviewer gave a curt nod, then waved a signaling hand at the mirror on the wall. A moment later there was a click, and the singular metal door opened to reveal a young woman with an electronics cart. "I really think I've got it this time," I blurted. "Quiet please," said the interviewer. The young woman kept her eyes down as she rolled the cart into the room. A gust of her perfume wafted in with her; a sweet smell that reminded me of summer. I might have complimented her in another life. She removed the plastic cover from the array of cameras and microphones, toggled several switches, and the machine whirred to life. She exited the room, closing the door behind her with the same click. "Baseline," said the interviewer. "What is your name?" "Patrick Jonathan Parrish." "Where are we right now?" "I don't know." "What year is it?" "1992." A pause, the interviewer took a final drag from the cigarette before extinguishing it among the others in the ashtray. "Now we begin".