mechanical parts of the system. And if a troublesome patient treats them as individuals, they feel flattered.
"What’s the reading?" I ask.
"Quiet! You know that I can’t show you." Every evening Rachel repeats the same words, before showing me the chart. That is part of our ritual. If she just showed me the chart without refusing first, then I would be disappointed. Like a lady-killer whose new lover surren-ders to him without resistance.
"Do you want a sleeping pill?" It is a rhetorical question. I swallow the pill automatically, while Rachel moves the cover aside and looks for a place on my left leg where she can give me two injections. The leg is covered with little pinholes, there is hardly any room for more. Since I have been here I have had two injections every three hours, that’s eight every twenty-four hours: one of penicillin and one painkiller. Sixteen holes a day.
"Owwwwww!" I groan, even though I hardly feel anything from Rachel’s injections.
"Are you afraid of needles?"
"Yes, really," I admit. "Like going to the dentist."
Rachel laughs. She raises my head with one hand, and arranges the pillow with the other. She smooths the cover, strokes my hair, and regards me like an artist whose work is complete.
"Now be a good boy and go to sleep!"
"Certainly," I promise.
She turns off the main light and turns on the small table lamp. The lights are never turned off completely in the rooms of the critical cases. During the night the nurse has to make regular checks on the patient.
"Good night," says Rachel.
"Good night," I answer.
"Drink," mumbles the other, as if in a trance.
* * *
I know I won’t go to sleep.
The whole day I have been afraid of this moment. The long night is torture. In the day there is always something happening. You can talk with the doctors or nurses, listen to other voices, read a book, or leaf through a magazine.
In the night the minutes drag endlessly, and the pain feels doubly