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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