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A
workman
's
eyes
snap
shut
while
he
's
going
at
full
run
,
and
he
drops
in
his
tracks
;
two
of
his
buddies
running
by
grab
him
up
and
lateral
him
into
a
furnace
as
they
pass
.
The
furnace
whoops
a
ball
of
fire
and
I
hear
the
popping
of
a
million
tubes
like
walking
through
a
field
of
seed
pods
.
This
sound
mixes
with
the
whirr
and
clang
of
the
rest
of
the
machines
.
There
's
a
rhythm
to
it
,
like
a
thundering
pulse
.
The
dorm
floor
slides
on
out
of
the
shaft
and
into
the
machine
room
.
Right
away
I
see
what
's
straight
above
us
--
one
of
those
trestle
affairs
like
you
find
in
meat
houses
,
rollers
on
tracks
to
move
carcasses
from
the
cooler
to
the
butcher
without
much
lifting
.
Two
guys
in
slacks
,
white
shirts
with
the
sleeves
turned
back
,
and
thin
black
ties
are
leaning
on
the
catwalk
above
our
beds
,
gesturing
to
each
other
as
they
talk
,
cigarettes
in
long
holders
tracing
lines
of
red
light
.
They
're
talking
but
you
ca
n't
make
out
the
words
above
the
measured
roar
rising
all
around
them
.
One
of
the
guys
snaps
his
fingers
,
and
the
nearest
workman
veers
in
a
sharp
turn
and
sprints
to
his
side
.
The
guy
points
down
at
one
of
the
beds
with
his
cigarette
holder
,
and
the
worker
trots
off
to
the
steel
stepladder
and
runs
down
to
our
level
,
where
he
goes
out
of
sight
between
two
transformers
huge
as
potato
cellars
.
When
that
worker
appears
again
he
's
pulling
a
hook
along
the
trestle
overhead
and
taking
giant
strides
as
he
swings
along
it
.
He
passes
my
bed
and
a
furnace
whooping
somewhere
suddenly
lights
his
face
up
right
over
mine
,
a
face
handsome
and
brutal
and
waxy
like
a
mask
,
wanting
nothing
.
I
've
seen
a
million
faces
like
it
.
He
goes
to
the
bed
and
with
one
hand
grabs
the
old
Vegetable
Blastic
by
the
heel
and
lifts
him
straight
up
like
Blastic
do
n't
weigh
more
'n
a
few
pounds
;
with
the
other
hand
the
worker
drives
the
hook
through
the
tendon
back
of
the
heel
,
and
the
old
guy
's
hanging
there
upside
down
,
his
moldy
face
blown
up
big
,
scared
,
the
eyes
scummed
with
mute
fear
.
He
keeps
flapping
both
arms
and
the
free
leg
till
his
pajama
top
falls
around
his
head
.
The
worker
grabs
the
top
and
bunches
and
twists
it
like
a
burlap
sack
and
pulls
the
trolley
clicking
back
over
the
trestle
to
the
catwalk
and
looks
up
to
where
those
two
guys
in
white
shirts
are
standing
.
One
of
the
guys
takes
a
scalpel
from
a
holster
at
his
belt
.
There
's
a
chain
welded
to
the
scalpel
.
The
guy
lowers
it
to
the
worker
,
loops
the
other
end
of
the
chain
around
the
railing
so
the
worker
ca
n't
run
off
with
a
weapon
.
The
worker
takes
the
scalpel
and
slices
up
the
front
of
old
Blastic
with
a
clean
swing
and
the
old
man
stops
thrashing
around
.
I
expect
to
be
sick
,
but
there
's
no
blood
or
innards
falling
out
like
I
was
looking
to
see
--
just
a
shower
of
rust
and
ashes
,
and
now
and
again
a
piece
of
wire
or
glass
.
Worker
's
standing
there
to
his
knees
in
what
looks
like
clinkers
.
A
furnace
got
its
mouth
open
somewhere
,
licks
up
somebody
.
I
think
about
jumping
up
and
running
around
and
waking
up
McMurphy
and
Harding
and
as
many
of
the
guys
as
I
can
,
but
there
would
n't
be
any
sense
in
it
.
If
I
shook
somebody
awake
he
'd
say
,
Why
you
crazy
idiot
,
what
the
hell
's
eating
you
?
And
then
probably
help
one
of
the
workers
lift
me
onto
one
of
those
hooks
himself
,
saying
,
How
about
let
's
see
what
the
insides
of
an
Indian
are
like
?
I
hear
the
high
,
cold
,
whistling
wet
breath
of
the
fog
machine
,
see
the
first
wisps
of
it
come
seeping
out
from
under
McMurphy
's
bed
.
I
hope
he
knows
enough
to
hide
in
the
fog
.
