"I'm sorry, Gran. I need to get through this week and I'll be free and clear and
I'll come back to Toronto."
"I'm going to come down there to see you. Linda told me visitors weren't allowed, is that true?"
"No, it's not true." I thought about Gran seeing me in the ward amidst the pukers and the screamers and the droolers and the *fondlers* and flinched away from the phone. "But if you're going to come down, come for the hearing at the end of the week. There's nothing you can do here now."
"Even if I can't help, I just want to come and see you. It was so nice when you were here."
"I know, I know. I'll be coming back soon, don't worry."
If only Gran could see me now, on the infirmary examination table, in four-point restraint. Good thing she can't.
A doctor looms over me. "How are you feeling, Art?"
"I've had better days," I say, with what I hope is stark sanity and humor. Aren't crazy people incapable of humor? "I went for a walk and the door swung shut behind me."
"Well, they'll do that," the doctor says. "My name is Szandor," he says, and shakes my hand in its restraint.
"A pleasure to meet you," I say. "You're a *doctor* doctor, aren't you?"