fuck!"
Heidi took the bleeder by the arm and led him to the nurses' station. Button-push, click, and she received something from a slot in the front window. Swabs and antibiotic cream. As she ministered to the bleeder, some of the men in khaki began to come alive. Shifting position, flexing arms, looking in all directions.
The hallway smelled of aggression. Phil Hatterson sidled closer to Milo. Milo stared him still. His hands were fisted.
One of the male techs, a short, husky Filipino, said, "Okay, everyone. Just settle down now."
The hallway went quiet.
Hatterson gave out a long, loud exhalation. "I hate when stupid stuff happens.
What's the point?"
Heidi hustled the bleeder around the nursing station and out of sight.
Hatterson said, "Gentlemen?" and we resumed our tour. Most of his color had returned. I wouldn't have picked him for any pathology worse than oily obsequiousness- Eddie Haskell misplaced among the lunatics, annoying but coherent. I knew many psychotics were helped mightily by drugs. Could this be chemistry at its best?
He said, "Here's my favorite place. The TV room."
The ward had ended and we were facing the open doorway of a large bright space filled with plastic chairs. A big-screen TV stood at the front like an altar.
Hatterson said, "The way we choose what to watch is with democracy-everyone who wants to vote, votes. The majority rules. It's pretty peaceful-picking shows, I mean. I like news but I don't get to watch it too often, but I also like sports and almost everyone votes for sports, so it's okay. There's our mailbox."
He pointed to a hard plastic box fastened to the wall. Rounded edges. Chain-locked.
"Our mail's private unless there's a mitigating circumstance."
"Such as?" I said.
The question frightened him. "Someone acts out."
"Does that happen often?"
"No, no." His eyelids fluttered. "The docs do a great job."
"Dr. Argent, too?" said Milo.
"Sure, of course."
"So you knew her."
Hatterson's hands made tiny circular motions. He licked his lips and turned them the color of raw liver. "We didn't do any counseling together, but I knew who she was.
Very nice lady." Another lip-lick. "I mean, she seemed very smart-she was nice."
"Do you know what happened to her?"
Hatterson stared at the floor. "Sure."
"Does everyone?"
"I can't speak for anyone, sir. It was in the paper."
"They let you read the paper?" said Milo.
"Sure, we can read anything. I like Time magazine, you get all the news in a neat little package. Anyway, that's it for A Ward. B and C are mostly the same. There's a few women on C. They don't cause any problems."
"Are they kept to themselves?" I said.
"No, they get to mingle. There's just not too many of them. We don't have problems with them."
"What about the fifth floor?" said Milo.
"Oh," said Hatterson. "The 13's. Naw, we never see them except to look out the window when a sheriff's bus brings them in. They wear jail blues, go straight up their own elevator. They're..."
He shrugged.
"They're what?" I said.
"Fakers. Got no stake here. Anyway, we've got some pretty nice rooms, let me show
'em to you-here's an open one we can take a look at."
The space was generous, totally bare, clean as a Marine barracks. Four beds, one for each corner: mattresses set into white molded-plastic frames attached to the floor.
Next to each one, a nightstand of the same material.
A single clouded window offered a few square inches of cottony light.
Three of the beds were made up neatly, top sheets tucked tight. One was jumbled. No closets. A doorless entry led to a tiny white lav. Lidless white toilet, white sink.
No medicine cabinet, no toiletries, no toothbrushes. Anything was a potential
Heidi took the bleeder by the arm and led him to the nurses' station. Button-push, click, and she received something from a slot in the front window. Swabs and antibiotic cream. As she ministered to the bleeder, some of the men in khaki began to come alive. Shifting position, flexing arms, looking in all directions.
The hallway smelled of aggression. Phil Hatterson sidled closer to Milo. Milo stared him still. His hands were fisted.
One of the male techs, a short, husky Filipino, said, "Okay, everyone. Just settle down now."
The hallway went quiet.
Hatterson gave out a long, loud exhalation. "I hate when stupid stuff happens.
What's the point?"
Heidi hustled the bleeder around the nursing station and out of sight.
Hatterson said, "Gentlemen?" and we resumed our tour. Most of his color had returned. I wouldn't have picked him for any pathology worse than oily obsequiousness- Eddie Haskell misplaced among the lunatics, annoying but coherent. I knew many psychotics were helped mightily by drugs. Could this be chemistry at its best?
He said, "Here's my favorite place. The TV room."
The ward had ended and we were facing the open doorway of a large bright space filled with plastic chairs. A big-screen TV stood at the front like an altar.
Hatterson said, "The way we choose what to watch is with democracy-everyone who wants to vote, votes. The majority rules. It's pretty peaceful-picking shows, I mean. I like news but I don't get to watch it too often, but I also like sports and almost everyone votes for sports, so it's okay. There's our mailbox."
He pointed to a hard plastic box fastened to the wall. Rounded edges. Chain-locked.
"Our mail's private unless there's a mitigating circumstance."
"Such as?" I said.
The question frightened him. "Someone acts out."
"Does that happen often?"
"No, no." His eyelids fluttered. "The docs do a great job."
"Dr. Argent, too?" said Milo.
"Sure, of course."
"So you knew her."
Hatterson's hands made tiny circular motions. He licked his lips and turned them the color of raw liver. "We didn't do any counseling together, but I knew who she was.
Very nice lady." Another lip-lick. "I mean, she seemed very smart-she was nice."
"Do you know what happened to her?"
Hatterson stared at the floor. "Sure."
"Does everyone?"
"I can't speak for anyone, sir. It was in the paper."
"They let you read the paper?" said Milo.
"Sure, we can read anything. I like Time magazine, you get all the news in a neat little package. Anyway, that's it for A Ward. B and C are mostly the same. There's a few women on C. They don't cause any problems."
"Are they kept to themselves?" I said.
"No, they get to mingle. There's just not too many of them. We don't have problems with them."
"What about the fifth floor?" said Milo.
"Oh," said Hatterson. "The 13's. Naw, we never see them except to look out the window when a sheriff's bus brings them in. They wear jail blues, go straight up their own elevator. They're..."
He shrugged.
"They're what?" I said.
"Fakers. Got no stake here. Anyway, we've got some pretty nice rooms, let me show
'em to you-here's an open one we can take a look at."
The space was generous, totally bare, clean as a Marine barracks. Four beds, one for each corner: mattresses set into white molded-plastic frames attached to the floor.
Next to each one, a nightstand of the same material.
A single clouded window offered a few square inches of cottony light.
Three of the beds were made up neatly, top sheets tucked tight. One was jumbled. No closets. A doorless entry led to a tiny white lav. Lidless white toilet, white sink.
No medicine cabinet, no toiletries, no toothbrushes. Anything was a potential
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