Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Rightandleftthereareotherthingshappeningjustasbad—crazy,horriblethingstoogoofyandoutlandishtocryaboutandtoomuchtruetolaughabout—butthefogisgettingthickenoughIdon’thavetowatch.Andsomebody’stuggingatmyarm.Iknowalreadywhatwillhappen:somebody’lldragmeoutofthefogandwe’llbebackonthewardandtherewon’tbeasignofwhatwentontonightandifIwasfoolenoughtotryandtellanybodyaboutitthey’dsay,Idiot,youjusthadanightmare;thingsascrazyasabigmachineroomdowninthebowelsofadamwherepeoplegetcutupbyrobotworkersdon’texist.

           Butiftheydon’texist,howcanamanseethem?

           It’sMr.Turklethatpullsmeoutofthefogbythearm,shakingmeandgrinning.Hesays,"Youhavin’abaddream,MistuhBromden."He’stheaideworksthelonglonelyshiftfrom11to7,anoldNegromanwithabigsleepygrinontheendofalongwobblyneck.Hesmellslikehe’shadalittletodrink."Backtosleepnow,MistuhBromden."

           Somenightshe’lluntiethesheetfromacrossmeifit’ssotightIsquirmaround.Hewouldn’tdoitifhethoughtthedaycrewknewitwashim,becausethey’dprobablyfirehim,buthefiguresthedaycrewwillthinkitwasmeuntiedit.Ithinkhereallydoesittobekind,tohelp—buthemakessurehe’ssafefirst.

           Thistimehedoesn’tuntiethesheetbutwalksawayfrommetohelptwoaidesIneversawbeforeandayoungdoctorliftoldBlasticontothestretcherandcarryhimout,coveredwithasheet—handlehimmorecarefulthananybodyeverhandledhimbeforeinallhislife.