The nurses passed a second gathering of items through the wire. These included some rough sheets and a pillowcase, a threadbare army surplus olive drab wool blanket, a bathrobe much like the ones he'd already seen on some patients, and some pajamas, again like those he'd already seen. He placed these on top of the suitcase and lifted both in front of him.
Mr. Moses nodded. "All right, I'll show you your bed. Get your stuff squared away. Then what have we got for Mister C-Bird, ladies?"
Again, one of the nurses checked the chart. "Lunch at noon. Then he's free until a group session in Room 101 at three with Mister Evans. He comes back here at four thirty for free time. Dinner at six o'clock. Medications at seven. That's it."
"You get all that, Mister C-Bird?"
Francis nodded. He didn't trust his own voice. He could hear, echoing deep within him, orders to comply, keep quiet, and stay alert. He followed Mr. Moses through a door into a large room with some thirty to forty beds lined up in rows. All the beds were made up, except one, not far from the door. There were a half dozen men lying on beds, either asleep, or staring up into the ceiling, who barely looked in his direction as he entered the room.
Mr. Moses helped him to make the bed and stow his few clothes in a foot locker. There was room for the tiny suitcase, as well, and it disappeared into the empty space. It took less than five minutes to square him away.
"Well, that's it," Mr. Moses said.
"What happens to me now?" Francis asked.
The attendant smiled a little wistfully. "Now, C-Bird, what you got to do is get yourself better."
Francis nodded. "How?"
"That the big question, C-Bird. You gone have to figure that out for yourself."
"What should I do?" Francis asked.
The attendant leaned down toward him. "Just keep to yourself. This place can get a bit rough, sometimes. You got to figure out everybody else, and give 'em what space they need. Don't be trying to make friends too fast, C-Bird. Just keep your mouth shut and follow the rules. You need help, you talk to me or my brother, or one of the nurses, and we'll try to see you straight."
"But what are the rules?" Francis said.
The large attendant turned and pointed at a sign posted high on the wall.
NO SMOKING IN SLEEPING ROOM
NO LOUD NOISES
NO TALKING AFTER 9 PM
RESPECT OTHERS
RESPECT OTHER PEOPLE'S PROPERTY
When he finished reading through twice, Francis turned. He wasn't sure where to go or what to do. He sat down on the edge of his bed.
Across the room, one of the men who had been lying down staring at the ceiling, feigning sleep, abruptly stood up. He was very tall, well over six and one half feet, with a sunken chest, and thin, bony arms that protruded from beneath a tattered sweatshirt with the logo of the New England Patriots on it, and stovepipe legs that jutted from lime green surgical scrubs that were six inches too short. The sweatshirt sleeves had been sliced off just below the shoulders. He was far older than Francis, and wore stringy gray-tinged hair in a matted clump that fell to his shoulders. His eyes were suddenly wide, as if half-frightened and half-furious. The man instantly lifted one cadaverous hand and pointed directly at Francis.
"Stop it!" he shouted out. "Stop it, now!"
Francis shrank back slightly. "Stop what?"
"Just stop! I can tell! You cannot fool me! I knew it as soon as you came in! Stop it!"
"I don't know what I'm doing," Francis replied meekly.
By now the tall man was waving both arms in the air as if trying to clear cobwebs from his path. His voice was rising with each step he took across the room, "Stop it! Stop it! I can see through you! You can't do it to me!"
Francis looked around for somewhere to run, or to hide, but he was hemmed in by the man lurching toward him and the back wall of the room. The few other men in the dormitory were still asleep, or ignoring what was happening.
The man seemed to have stretched in size, growing in ferocity with every stride. "I know! I could tell! From the moment you walked in! Stop now!"
Francis felt frozen with confusion. Inwardly, his voices were all screaming in a cascade of conflicted advice: Run! Run! He's going to hurt us! Hide! His head pivoted around, trying to see how he could escape the tall man's onslaught. He tried to will his muscles to work, at least rise up from the bed, but, instead, he shrank backward, almost cowering.
"If you will not stop, then it's up to me to stop you!" the man shouted. He seemed to be preparing himself for an assault.
Francis lifted his arms to fend off the attack.
The tall man gargled out some sort of gathered war cry, lifted himself up, puffing out his sunken chest and waving his arms above his head. Seemed ready to leap on Francis, when another voice sliced across the room.
"Lanky! Stop there!"
The tall man hesitated, then turned in the direction of the voice.
"Just stop right there!"
Francis was still huddled back against the wall, and he couldn't see who was speaking until the tall man turned around.
"What are you doing?"
"But it's him," the man said to whomever had come into the dormitory. He seemed, in that moment, to have shrunk in size.
"No, it's not!" came the reply.
And then Francis saw that the man fast approaching was the same man he'd met in his first minutes in the hospital.
"Leave him alone!"
"But it's him! I could tell as soon as I saw him!"
"That's what you said to me when I first showed up. That's what you say to every new person who comes into the hospital."
This made the tall man hesitate.
"I do?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I still think it's him," said the tall man, but oddly, most of the passion had fled from his voice, replaced by questions and some doubt. "I'm pretty sure," he added. "He absolutely could be, I'll say that." Despite the conviction contained in the words, the tenor of the voice was filled with uncertainty.