In the middle of a supply run to my closet, a fierce shrieking erupted inside my skull. My reflection in the dented can of stainless-steel polish showed I still had thirty hours left. Yet, if anything were to hurt because of the collar, it should be my neck, not my whole head.

Out in the entryway, a few people had slumped onto the loveseats and gripped their foreheads as if staunching brain leaks. Something was happening, but I didn't know what.

The door to the ...