“That’s dinner,” said the other checker player. “Ever try to commit suicide? Or kill anyone?”
“No.”
“They’ll let you eat at an A table then, with knife and fork.”
The door of the ward was being opened. It opened outward and a guard stood outside and said, “All right.” They filed out, all except the man who was sitting in the chair staring into space.
“Know about him?” he asked Ray Bassington.
“He’ll miss a meal tonight. Manic-depressive, just going into the depressive stage. They let you miss one meal; if you’re not able to go to the next they take you and feed you. You a manic-depressive?”
“No.”
“You’re lucky. It’s hell when you’re on the downswing. Here, through this door.”
It was a big room. Tables and benches were crowded with men in gray shirts and gray trousers, like his. A guard grabbed his arm as he went through the doorway and said, “There. That seat.”
It was right beside the door. There was a tin plate, messy with food, and a spoon beside it. He asked, “Don’t I get a knife and fork? I was told—”