"Get me a mirror!" He was hollering. He tried to control his voice: he was being womanish. "Give me a mirror, damn you ... I want to see my arm."
"If I thought it would help you I'd let you see your arm. My boy, you can't tell one bone from another, one muscle from another. Even our radiographs can't help you."
The Britisher, a tall young man, a Londoner, was sympathetic: putting his hand on Orville's good arm he begged him to trust Phelan:
"Be reasonable ... try to be reasonable. My god, you think we want your smashed arm? What will we do with it? Can we sell it?" Realizing that his humor was crude, he added: "Easy, Orville ... we're looking after you ... believe in us."
"It's not your amputation," snarled Dennison.
Turning to Sister Blanche, Dr. Phelan ordered her to jot down notes: notations about the skull x-rays, the arm, wrist, and hand radiographs: he dictated in a Midi-voice, a tired, harsh, old voice.
Dennison attempted to follow the medical terminology, still unconvinced.
"What about my head injury?" he asked.
"You mean, what's wrong?"
"What happened ... nobody has explained."