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the covers, and swing the arm up and to the left. Nothing to it. But his hand’s grip was weak, and his arm faltered halfway through each swing. He ended up entangled in the top sheet, blanket, and light cotton cover. Even this light exertion had him breathing heavily from exhaustion and frustration. Goddammit! I can do this! He swung his arm again and again until the sheet and blanket and cover were entangled around his knees. In frustration, he tried to kick them down to the bottom of the mattress, moving his feet frantically, making a bigger mess. He stopped and breathed, enraged and panicky. This part was supposed to be easy . This was only the first damned step to getting up. If he couldn’t manage getting free of the blanket . . .
    Stop! He ordered himself. He had to stop and regroup before he ran completely out of strength.
    Jesus. Getting out of bed. How hard can it be? He was thirty-four years old. He’d done it over twelve thousand times in his lifetime. Even an idiot could get out of bed. An idiot, maybe, but apparently not him.
    Matt pressed the button on the side of the hospital cot and listened to the quiet motor purring as it lifted the head of the bed up. He raised it to its full extension. Maybe sitting up would help him. Sitting up was another nifty skill he’d just relearned, thanks to the hospital bed. Sitting up gave you a whole new perspective on the world as compared to lying flat on your back. Yesterday, he’d actually fed himself some watery soup while sitting up in bed.
    Man, he was on a roll.
    He looked with hatred at the tangle of sheet and blankets at the bottom of the bed and devised a strategy for dealing with it. Craftily, he slowly bent his knees and pulled his legs up until his feet cleared the tangle and were planted in the middle of the bed. Then he pushed them back down again, pushing the tangle of sheets and blankets to the bottom of the bed. Smart move, Sanders , he congratulated himself.
    Glancing at the figure in the bed next to his, at a man who would never again in this lifetime stand on his own two feet, Matt thought— this is for you, buddy —and twisted his torso and straightened his legs until they dangled over the side of the bed. Moving hurt like hell, and he had to stop to get his breathing under control. His quick pants of exhaustion were loud in the quiet room. Eventually the walls stopped spinning, and the pain subsided enough for him to get a grip on himself. He sat on the side of the bed, trying to breathe regularly and trying to steel himself for what came next.
    It had to be soon because Nurse Ratched would be coming in to measure his blood pressure and temperature and give him an antibiotic jab in about fifteen minutes and Matt wanted to be on his feet when she came in. It was a matter of pride—pride and, yes, his goddamned manhood. Men stood on their own two feet.
    He sat and contemplated the floor for long minutes, studying the waxy green linoleum as if all the answers to the questions that had puzzled mankind for centuries could be deciphered in the dark green streaks veining the floor. He barely recognized himself. He wasn’t an impulsive man—in fact, back in the day, he was known for his patience and selfcontrol—but by the same token, once he’d taken a decision to do something hard, he immediately took action, and he didn’t stop until he’d seen it through. He was patient but he was also pigheaded.
    Sitting here bare-assed on the side of the bed with his bare feet dangling from the bed, Matt didn’t recognize himself.
    Just do it.
    Bracing himself on his hands, he scooted closer to the edge of the bed, the open white coat opening even farther, but who the shit cared? His buddy in the next bed had his eyes closed, and it sure as hell wasn’t anything Nurse Ratched didn’t see every day. Didn’t wipe every day, to his shame. He slid closer and closer to the edge until his feet touched the floor, the first time his feet had touched anything but