Summer 1960 • Vol. XXII No. 3 Fiction |


They pulled him down out of the gardner's old pickup, gasping and grey and semi-senseless with pain. He smelled of manure. There had been an empty burlap sack at his feet all the way in from Rosehaw. They bore him quickly through the drizzle, the smoke in the emergency-entrance's light, and loaded him on a gurney. His little screwed-up face was round like a winter apple whose flesh has shrunk within the leathery hide. The gardener followed, holding his agony tight in against his sides with his bony elbows. "You didn't call," Jorgesen snapped, crackling across the rubber-tile with her big feet bunioning in their white ugly shoes. "NOW what do you expect me to do, who told you to bring him here, he belongs in General. Who did you call, WE'VE had no word!" She looked down at the little old winter-apple face rolling from side to side on the gurney. His lips were stained blue as if he'd been eating blackberries. "See if you can pry Liebholz away from that coffee-pot," she com

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