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Chapter 11

           It’sBillyBibbitwhogoesuptohim.

           "Someofushaveb-beenhereforfi-fi-fiveyears,Randle,"Billysays.He’sgotamagazinerolledupandistwistingatitwithhishands;youcanseethecigaretteburnsonthebacksofhishands."Andsomeofuswillb-beheremaybeth-thatmuh-muh-muchlonger,longafteryou’reg-g-gone,longafterthisWo-worldSeriesisover.And...don’tyousee..."Hethrowsdownthemagazineandwalksaway."Oh,what’stheuseofitanyway."

           McMurphystaresafterhim,thatpuzzledfrownknottinghisbleachedeyebrowstogetheragain.

           Hearguesfortherestofthedaywithsomeoftheotherguysaboutwhytheydidn’tvote,buttheydon’twanttotalkaboutit,soheseemstogiveup,doesn’tsayanythingaboutitagaintillthedaybeforetheSeriesstarts."HereitisThursday,"hesays,sadlyshakinghishead.

           He’ssittingononeofthetablesinthetubroomwithhisfeetonachair,tryingtospinhiscaparoundonefinger.OtherAcutesmopearoundtheroomandtrynottopayanyattentiontohim.Nobody’llplaypokerorblackjackwithhimformoneyanymoreafterthepatientswouldn’tvotehegotmadandskinnedthemsobadatcardsthatthey’reallsoindebtthey’rescaredtogoanydeeperandtheycan’tplayforcigarettesbecausethenursehasstartedmakingthemenkeeptheircartonsonthedeskintheNurses’Station,whereshedolesthemoutonepackaday,saysit’sfortheirhealth,buteverybodyknowsit’stokeepMcMurphyfromwinningthemallatcards.

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