“How is it you’re fastened by the leg and I by the wrist?” I asked.
“They fastened me by the wrist at first,” Hopper said indifferently, and pushed his tray aside. “But I found it awkward to read so Bland changed it. If you ask him he’ll change yours. You don’t mind not talking any more, do you? I want to get on with this book.”
No, I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind at all. I was excited. If I could persuade Bland to unfasten my wrist, I might reach the key. It was a thought that occupied me for the next hour.
Bland came in a few minutes to eleven o’clock carrying an enormous vase of gladioli sprays. He set it down on top of the chest of drawers and drew back to admire it.
“Pretty nice, ugh?” he said, beaming. “That’s for the councilmen. It’s a funny thing how these guys go for flowers. The last bunch never even looked at the patients. All they did was to stand around and yap about the flowers.”
He collected the breakfast-trays and took them away, and returned almost immediately. He surveyed us critically, straightened Hopper’s sheet, came over and smoothed out my pillow.
“Now keep just as you are,” he said. “For Pete’s sake, don’t get yourselves untidy. Haven’t you a book?” he asked me.
“You haven’t given me one.”
“Must have a book. That’s another of these punks’ fads. They like to see a patient reading.”
He charged out of the room and returned a little breathlessly carrying a heavy volume which he slapped down on my knees.