A jumble of clear, high voices chirped familiarly in his ears, but he paid no attention to the words as such. His bath was delightful, although he sneezed violently at the talcum dust afterward. Now the voices were silent except Rolanda's occasional soft words to him. Again he enjoyed his liquid meal and slipped into delicious slumber with the shades drawn.
Voices awakened him. A man's voice mingled with his wife's.
"In here, doctor. We managed to carry him to bed, and he hasn't awakened yet."
Baxter heard the words with mild interest but no comprehension. The man's voice came through the wall of the nursery from the next bedroom, a low rumble of pleasant sound. "No sign of physical impairment. Resembles a catatonic trance. Strange. Heartbeat is rapid, light—respiration, too. Like a baby's. We'd better take him down to the hospital."
"Is it that serious?"
"Will be if he continues unconscious. He'll starve."
"I'll call the ambulance."
Baxter fell asleep again. The chirping voices returned that afternoon, but there was a subdued air about them. For a few days the routine continued: eating, sleeping, eating, bathing, sleeping, eating—a wonderous, kaleidoscopic fairyland of enjoyable sensations.