It's as if more than a hundred different voices are chattering away in your brain as you gaze around the room, but one intrusive thought pattern drowns out all reason: that painting. That terrible painting of a clown. It is as if some artist only hastily scribbled it as some sort of placeholder or in-joke and was ultimately too tired to do anything more interesting in its place.

You're too confused, nauseous and agitated to care what they've got you tripping out on at the moment, which probably explains both your surroundings and your sudden surge of anger. You can't think of any reason they would separate you from your child.