Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           WhenshestandsshegivesFredricksonapatonthearm,andhegrumbles,"Yeah,IhavetotakeDilantintoo,youknow.That’swhyIknowwhatSeefhastoface.Imean,that’swhyI—well,heck—"

           "Iunderstand,Bruce,whatbothofyoumustgothrough,butdon’tyouthinkanythingisbetterthanthat?"

           Fredricksonlookswhereshepoints.Sefelthaspulledbackhalfwaynormal,swellingupanddownwithbigwet,rattlingbreaths.There’sapunk-knotrisingonthesideofhisheadwherehelanded,andaredfoamaroundtheblackboy’sstickwhereitgoesintohismouth,andhiseyesarebeginningtorollbackintothewhites.Hishandsarenailedouttoeachsidewiththepalmsupandthefingersjerkingopenandshut,justthewayI’vewatchedmenjerkattheShockShopstrappedtothecrossedtable,smokecurlingupoutofthepalmsfromthecurrent.SefeltandFredricksonneverbeentotheShockShop.They’remanufacturedtogeneratetheirownvoltage,storeitintheirspinesandcanbeturnedonremotefromthesteeldoorintheNurses’Stationiftheygetoutofline—berightinthebestpartofadirtyjokeandstiffenlikethejolthitsquareinthesmalloftheback.Itsavesthetroubleoftakingthemovertothatroom.