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your tongue, maybe. Anything that isn't hurting you concentrate on that. Think
only about this place that isn't hurting.
Think about it. I was told it really helps."
She went away.
He tried her recommendation. Maybe it helped.
When the light in the door-window was changing, Hans and Klaus came in. They
boosted him up and untied the jacket. His arms were so stiff he could barely
pull them free.
All dirty and naked as he was, he was led back through the empty corridor and
pushed onto the bed.
He was careful to say nothing, not to resist in any way. He had done some
thinking.
The point was, to get out of here. Ending his life here was just plain
impossible, they'd convinced him
of that. He was terminally "safe," all right.
So he had to get out their way. He had to go along. Grin, pretend to be
getting better, stand everything. No asking even for Maalox. No arguing about
gradual detoxification. Even smile at Miss
Plastic&
Could he do it? Oh, Christ, Oh Christ, for even a quarter of an M-tab! He was
so weak, so weak.
Could he do all that cold, keep it up?
He had to.
After all, they thought he was headed home, they couldn't keep him here
forever. And he guessed they were overcrowded there'd been a lot of beds
visible through the grille, in the big domed room he'd woken up in. Probably
they were eager to mark him "cured" and get shut of him. Probably they were
eager to see that their savage system worked, that he was successfully
"detoxed."
He smiled grimly lying in his dirt and shame. He'd be playing to an audience
that wanted to believe.
So he tried. Almost falling, with weakness, he carried his trays to the table,
made himself eat, spoke friendly to the guys beside him, and didn't tell
anybody when he got back to his room and threw it all up.
The world spinning around him with dizziness, he paced the corridor, swinging
his arms. "For exercise."
The dark-haired nurse smiled at him. When Miss Plastic stuck her head in on
her fifteen-minute checks, he made himself smile and greet her. Once he even
apologized for giving her so much trouble. She smiled and said, "That's what
we're here for, soldier." In his mind's eye he held a picture of what she'd be
here for if he had a chance, and grinned back. He made a try at keeping his
room clean, used the mop when a check was due.
But the trouble was, he wasn't getting any better, inside. The nights were
hells of nightmare memories.
And he grew not stronger but weaker, the weakness was like an iron yoke on his
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shoulders, and every effort left him dizzy and gasping. He hid this as well as
he could, blaming his occasional falls on the loose hospital slippers. One day
he made it to the showers, and nearly drowned himself fainting in the stall.
He found the linen-room and clean pajamas, but it took him half an hour to get
them on, leaning against the shelves, the room almost blacked out. Weaker day
by day.
What was the plan that his body must relearn to make the substances, as
somebody had told him?
What if his body wouldn't, what if he was too far gone? He didn't know much
about his internal workings, nor care, but he did know that individuals varied
greatly. What if he were the one who didn't recover, whose adrenaline gland or
whatever had died? He felt he was running on a shrinking energy-supply, like
an exhausted battery, each day less. He became genuinely frightened that he
couldn't keep up the deception, that he would be stuck here with his
unbearable memories forever.
But, miraculously, it worked. They were overcrowded in the detox wing. In less
than a week he found himself ordered to move again, this time to a corridor
with chairs in it, with open access to the space between the grilles, the
"dayroom." At the far end of the corridor were normal double doors, giving
onto a green gardeny-looking place. His room was no bigger; but he had a
table, and the window, though screened, had clear glass and curtains. He went
to it, looked out on a wall and a tangled garden.
And the glass could be opened by a screw-handle through the screens! He made
his trembling arms turn them wide, sank down on the chair to pant in the fresh
air. Oh, god! For a moment he actually felt better.
On his second day there he was given "Grounds privilege." Hans came and
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