My heart hammered at my lungs. I knew this last time had been different. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first time Doc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was a start.
He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom. His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed "springs"—metal webbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen had dissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into a meaningful whole.
I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, I became lost.
I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag of hamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring any hungry rats out of the walls.
I knelt beside Doc.
"An order, my boy, an order," he whispered.
I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders?
He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen, before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebook against the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it.
"Concentrate," Doc said hoarsely. "Concentrate...."
I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind of concentration.