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He hadn’t been to Billerica Minimum yet; he was released on bail Whitey Sorkin had given.

The taste of the M & M’s couldn’t mask the strangely sweet, medicinal taste of the hydromorphan in Gately’s mouth. In the glimmer of urine, he looked at the blue crown of flame on an old-fashioned stove top. During a period of amaranth sunset light, Faekelmann got a slight cramp and had bowel movements in his pants, and Gately lacked the fine motor skills to go over to Faekelmann during the seizure, help him and be there for him. He had this nightmarish feeling that he had to do something crucial, but forgot what it was. 10 mg blue bayou injections kept the feeling in check for less and less. He had never heard of convulsions from an overdose, and Fackelmann seemed to have returned to what could be considered awake with him. The sun in front of the large windows seemed to rise and fall like a yes-yes. They ran out of distilled water that Fackelmann had poured into the mixing bowl, and Fackelmann took a cotton ball and sucked

glaze colored urine from the floor and boiled up with urine. Gately seemed repulsed by it. Fetching the bottle with the distilled water from the ripped kitchen was out of the question. Gately meanwhile tied off his right arm with his teeth; the left arm could no longer be used for anything. Torchman smelled bad. Gately nodded away in a dream where he was sitting in a BeverlyNeedham bus with PARAGON BUS LINES: THE GRAY LINE on the sides. In a stupid recall over four years later at St. Es, he realizes that this is the bus from the dream that did not end and went nowhere, but at the same time comes to the sickening realization that the connection between the two buses is itself a dream or takes place in a dream, and now his fever is rising to new heights, and his line on the heart monitor is as funny little hooks as a jagged point on the first and third nodes that makes an amber light flash in the nurses’ room down the hall. When the buzzer sounded again, they looked at each other

the flame film on late at night. Now they heard poor old Pamela Hoffman-Jeep’s voice over the intercom. The intercom and apartment complex main entrance push button were on the other side of the living room, next to the apartment door. The ceiling bulged and shrank. Fackelmann had made a claw out of his hand and was studying it in the light of the TP flames. Mount Dilaudid was badly hollowed out on one side; a disastrous avalanche in the urine lake was not excluded. P.H.-J. sounded drunk like a nuck.

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