"What made you afraid, January?" Dr. Moriss' voice came from the doorway.
I catapulted to my feet, water cascading off my body over the edge of the tub onto the floor. Glaring at him I carefully stepped out of the tub, my hands working in choking motions.
He watched me with that air of detached interest he would have used in observing the motions of a monkey in a zoo. I glared at him another moment, then turned my back on him, drying myself with the thick turkish towel.
"What made you afraid, January?" It was patient repetition, insistent and unemotional. A school teacher repeating a question to a stubborn pupil.
I ignored it. When I finished drying and turned to go out, he was gone.
There was a pitcher of bright red liquid with ice cubes floating in it on the table by the bed, and a glass of it already poured sitting beside it. I splashed it down my throat with loud swallows, struggled into the pajamas, and slid under the covers. It seemed only an instant later—
"What made you afraid, January?" When I opened my eyes the hand shaking my shoulder stopped. "What made you afraid, January?"
I stared without answering. Finally I closed my eyes to blot out that serene disinterested, hateful face. When I opened them again it was gone. I cursed with the vocabulary of the scum from New York to San Francisco. His psychological game was obvious, now. He hoped to wear me down, drive me to the point where I would tell him what I would never tell anyone, as the price of peace. He'd wake me again as soon as I fell asleep. He'd wake me again and again and again. And again....
"What made you afraid, January?"
"Go 'way," I murmured drowsily.