“It was the result of a man's damnable folly,” said K. grimly. “Somebody always pays.”
And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid.
The immediate result of his death was that K., who had gained some of his faith in himself on seeing Wilson on the way to recovery, was beset by his old doubts. What right had he to arrogate to himself again powers of life and death? Over and over he told himself that there had been no carelessness here, that the boy would have died ultimately, that he had taken the only chance, that the boy himself had known the risk and begged for it.
The old doubts came back.
And now came a question that demanded immediate answer. Wilson would be out of commission for several months, probably. He was gaining, but slowly. And he wanted K. to take over his work.
“Why not?” he demanded, half irritably. “The secret is out. Everybody knows who you are. You're not thinking about going back to that ridiculous gas office, are you?”
“I had some thought of going to Cuba.”
“I'm damned if I understand you. You've done a marvelous thing; I lie here and listen to the staff singing your praises until I'm sick of your name! And now, because a boy who wouldn't have lived anyhow—”
“That's not it,” K. put in hastily. “I know all that. I guess I could do it and get away with it as well as the average. All that deters me—I've never told you, have I, why I gave up before?”
Wilson was propped up in his bed. K. was walking restlessly about the room, as was his habit when troubled.