"I don't believe it."
"You must believe in us," she said, fixing his covers, adjusting his bed, understanding and love obvious in her face.
"It's my arm ... mine ... it's mine."
Dr. Phelan appeared.
"We have reviewed the x-rays ... it's conclusive, my boy. It's surgery. Later, when it's all over, I'll do a detailed drawing for you."
Later, he rechecked the injury, gauze mask over his face: he probed, hating the stench, examining, re-examining tissue, bone; he checked potential bleeding, planning his surgery.
Dennison swore, gutter filth, wild, French, English.
The doctor dictated more notes to Blanche--oblivious.
"Now for the injection," he said to her. "We'll take him as soon as the theater is free."
As Dennison began to go under the strong sedative, he heard Sister Blanche talking: