HE WOKE FINALLY, fed up with the half wakings, the dreary moments of confusion between sleep and wakefulness, and gingerly felt around to make sure he hadn t embarrassed himself in the night as he had once before, though he was sure the fault lay with the drugs they were giving him and not his own waterworks, his very healthy prostate for a man his age, or so Doc Bennet had said, with his finger up his arsehole. So, the curtains were still drawn around old Mac. Not good sign, not good at all. His clock radio said seven-ten. There was water running somewhere and wheels creaking and voices in the corridor outside their room. It would be nice to lie in bed awhile, but Jesus that running water made you want to piss. He pulled himself up and shifted his thinning legs over the edge, felt around with his toes for slippers, found them, and eased himself off the bed. He was smart enough to hold steady for a minute and let his heart pump a meager sup- ply of oxygen to his dwindling brain cells, before taxing it with any other effort. Then he made a quick dash for the washroom, at least pretty qu~k for a man of seventy-six. He took time to contemplate his bristle in the mirror, pick at a sore spot on his nose, and the single thick black hair that persisted in growing from it, and then decided to hell with it, he d let his beard grow even if the nurses didn t like it, before tiptoeing back to take a peek at Mac behind the drawn curtains.
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