"More tests?" Lennox asked.
"Nope. You're all finished, buster."
"What now?"
No answer. Lennox shuffled in silence and terror.
"Are they going to lock me up for good?"
The red-head thrust open a door and led him into a tiled bathroom. Alongside the shower was a white table on which was neatly folded the clothing Lennox had worn the previous Sunday.
"Extra special for you," he said. "Why didn't you tell us you was a big wheel, buster? Wash up and get dressed."
In a daze, Lennox bathed and dressed. He looked at himself in the wash mirror. He was completely unchanged ... except for the three-day beard on his face.
"Why should I be changed?" he thought. "Nothing's changed inside me. I'm like all the rest. Sick. Feeding on what happened to Sam. Living on poison. Loving the poison. It's only the innocents like Sam who suffer. Our diet kills them."
Outside in the corridor, the red-head was waiting for him, sneaking a smoke like a convict. He pinched out the end of the cigarette, put it in his pocket, and took Lennox downstairs. There was a blurry business in an office of unlocking a file and restoring his possessions ... money, watch, keys, and the gimmick book which he slid into his jacket. He flexed his right arm against it repeatedly. It was his one hold on his life.