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away from this place and even the question of Birdie’s bed and the death of Jesus of Chillicothe. He had the asylum library’s copy of Stephen Vincent Benét’s
John Brown’s
Body
in the top drawer of his bedside table, one of the two-foot-square white metal cabinets put between the beds for each patient. If anybody had more stuff than would fit in the cabinet, it went under the bed. Josh had nothing under his bed; as far he knew, neither did anybody else. Patients came to Somerset with nothing but a few clothes and toilet articles, and it stayed that way because there was no way—or need—to acquire anything else.
    But it was impossible for Josh to read in this darkness. There had been a time when he could see the print of a book pretty well at night, having been taught by a bushwhacker war veteran how to train his eyes for night vision. But it was getting increasingly difficult for Josh to read even in the broadest daylight. Sister Hilda, his favorite Somerset Sister, had brought him a large magnifying glass and had promised to get the local optician to make him a pair of reading glasses someday. . . .
    Josh heard a metallic rattling sound, one of the tied-down patients jerking on his ropes. It had to be Birdie. The others seldom did it anymore; they knew it was useless. They had learned that if they had a real emergency, or even if they just had to go to the bathroom, the only way they could get loose was to yell out loudly and long enough to bring a bushwhacker into the ward. Pulling on the ropes got you nowhere.
    The rattle stopped. Birdie must have also figured out those ropes weren’t going to break or come loose. Would he close his eyes and try to go to sleep? Josh held his breath. The only sound was that of snoring, some occasional dialogue from a dream, the scream from a nightmare. Somebody—it sounded like Gardner from Lee’s Summit, ten beds away from Josh—was being chased by a white mouse. Another guy was denying to a woman, probably his wife, that he had touched her baby sister while she slept on a sunporch. Somebody else, Josh couldn’t tell for sure who, was reciting a recipe for corn-bread stuffing over and over.
    Then it began.
    â€œNo! No! Don’t shoot no more! The blood! Look at the blood!” Birdie’s voice was a piercing screech. “Nooooooooooo!”
    Josh sat up in bed.
    â€œDon’t shoot no more! The blood! Noooooo!”
    One of the other patients yelled halfheartedly, “Knock it off, new boy. Us lunatics need our beauty sleep too.” Josh, even in the dark, knew that was Richard of Harrisonville.
    â€œThe blood! Don’t shoot no more!”
    Figuring it wouldn’t be long before a bushwhacker would be in here, Josh decided to do something. The bushwhackers, as Amos had done tonight, encouraged him to act in situations like this. He slipped his blue cotton pants over his underwear, stuck on his shoes, and went over to Birdie’s bed.
    â€œHey, Birdie, it’s me, Josh,” he whispered. He leaned down into Birdie’s face, which was twisted like a dirty rag. “Forget about what happened to you. Tell me a story of something else, Birdie. Tell me a story, any story. . . .”
    At that moment, the lights came on, the hallway door sprang open, and in rushed Amos and two other bushwhackers carrying Somerset Sluggers.

    They untied Birdie and yanked him to the floor. Then they ordered him to strip naked and led him away. As they left the ward, they invited Josh to join them.
    The bushwhackers didn’t slug Birdie in the head because he went quietly. He was through screaming. Josh figured that was because he was wide awake and his eyes were no longer closed.
    â€œPlease let me put some clothes on,” Birdie said to the bushwhackers. He said it quietly, like a normal person would.
    â€œForget it,” Amos said, and he pushed Birdie on in front of him.
    Josh saw how truly upset Birdie was about