For the past couple of weeks, Joan’s been receiving orders from her television set. They’re nothing particularly strange or harmful, and they really feel more like suggestions than orders, so far—they’re just silly things, like, “Pour a glass of water on your head,” or, “Pour a glass of water over your neighbor’s head,” or “Maybe just drink that glass of water this time.” And while her neighbor didn’t appreciate the mid-conversation surprise dousing, Joan’s always been a little odd, so he just took it in stride. Sometimes Joan doesn’t even know she’s following the orders from the television set, like when she just sort of found herself halfway home from the grocery store, the back of her car filled with jugs of bottled water and a plastic gallon on the seat beside her, opened and half-empty. At night, all of her dreams are filled with the sound of whispering static, like she’s left the TV on in the other room past the last sign-off of the night, but when she gets up to check, the TV’s always off, while the whispering is still there, an undercurrent to everything.