"There." Dr. Minton patted his shoulder. "You're all right now, Ronnie. You're perfectly all right. Just relax and try to sleep." The balloon came closer, and the scraggly ends of the doctor's beard brushed his cheek. Then the doctor's mouth was covering his small ear.
"Play the game," the doctor whispered. "For your own sake. Play the game, Ron..."
Then he was asleep.
He awoke to the sound of running feet. He sat up in bed and looked towards the door of the small white room in which he was confined. It was partly open, and the sound of clattering soles and shrill young voices came through clearly.
The door slammed open, startling him. A hoydenish youngster gaped at him. There was a flat lock of reddish hair over his forehead, and his face was freckled.
"Hoy," he said. "What's the matter with you?"
Ron stared back wordlessly.
"You sick or something?" the boy said, edging into the room.
"No." His own voice, strange and reedy, frightened him. "No, I'm all right."