MacMartree struck him in the face, with his open palm at first, but when that did no good, with doubled fists, hard. Finally Abner's screams stopped. Then MacMartree tried again.
"Listen, Abner ... can you hear me now?"
Abner's voice came twisting up, thin and quavery.
"I—hear you ... yes, I hear you...."
"Your arm, is that what makes you scream? Your arm?"
"Yes, yes," moaning now ... "yes, my arm ... I want to die ... let me die, please Mac, please...."
"Listen to me," MacMartree commanded fiercely. "Get hold of yourself and listen! This thing in your arm, it's a hurt. Your brain should be blocking it from your consciousness, but somehow it isn't. Do you understand me?"
"Hurt," Abner echoed. Then he began to croon it, as though there was something soothing in the sound of it: "Hurt, hurt, hurt in my arm...." He made a twisted little hymn of it, singing it over and over again.
"That's right," MacMartree was saying, "Your brain isn't killing the hurt, as it should. You must think, Abner, think of your arm, whole and well, and with no hurt in it. Think!"