“Are you my nurse?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m your nurse. Won’t you go back to sleep?”
“I hurt,” said Martin. “I hurt all over, but my back is the worst. And I need a drink.”
“What would you like?”
“Whisky. A big one.”
“I’ll get your medication,” said the girl, and left the room.
Martin looked around him. A hospital—neurotherapy; adjacent to a madhouse! Weakened your resistance in one and shipped you into the other! His body ached and his mind still turned. On with the medication!—and then what? From dipsomania to dope in twelve treatments. Bring on the bed-straps. Damned efficient nurse, that one—watching him jump around. Patient. If only his back wouldn’t hurt so terribly. Must be the kidneys. Need flushing. Why not use a plunger? Imagine that immaculate nurse astride him, pounding his gizzard with a plunger!
The nurse returned with two glasses. One was full of orange juice. The other she held away from her nose.
“More ether?” asked Martin.
“It isn’t.”