In case I haven’t mentioned it, Paul has cancer. His wife died of cancer, too, so he has done the dance before. Now, he has to deal with chemo, without family support and without a place to live.
His last treatment put him down for four days. At least he had four hots and a cot, a fact he recognized in his dining review; “the food has gotten a lot better at Fletcher Allen, but I wish I didn’t have to eat it because they put too much of that poison in my veins.” He has one treatment remaining.
While they don’t have to care when they put too much anesthetic into the death blend, because who cares if the convict overdoses, they should measure more carefully when trying to eliminate cancer from someone who has only been sentenced to organic death by disease, not a death qualified jury.
At the hospital, after the overdose, he gave the technicians his clothes bag so he could be checked in. At check out, they told him they lost his possessions. He left, “groggy, so unsteady on my feet, you would have thought I was drunk.” He walked down the hill, because he didn’t have any money and set up on the street near the Gear Exchange, his regular place.
I bought him an IZZY. He said he had never tasted soda so good. A coed left him a bag of clothes.
