"But not too bad, eh? You'll find it stiff for a while, and you'll have to be a little careful of it, but it's coming along fine. You're lucky. You mend quickly."
Only the body mended, Hendley thought. The other, the deeper wound, did not heal. "Tell me something, Doctor," he said abruptly. "What's wrong with me?"
"Eh? I just told you. You're coming along much better than we had any right to expect."
"I don't mean the hand. I mean—why am I different? Why do I feel things that others don't seem to feel? Not just here in the camp—I know there are some who don't adjust to freedom—but outside, too. Why didn't I fit in? Why did I feel that something was wrong?"
The doctor sat gingerly on the edge of the bed in Hendley's room, as if the question made him move with caution. "What makes you think you're different?"
"I know I am! Nik was different, too, but not in the same way."
"Freedom sickness," the doctor said absently.
"But you can't call mine freedom sickness," Hendley argued. "I haven't been here long enough. And I didn't belong in the outside Organization either. I don't belong anywhere! To me the whole system seems wrong, but why am I the only one who feels that way?"
"You're not the only one."
"Maybe not, but there aren't very many like me. I told you how that Morale Investigator reacted. I was a prize specimen to him. I was something new! That's why I was sent here."