Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Seven-forty-fivetheblackboysmovedownthelineofChronicstapingcathetersontheonesthatwillholdstillforit.Cathetersaresecond-handcondomstheendsclippedoffandrubber-bandedtotubesthatrundownpantlegstoaplasticsackmarkedDISPOSABLENOTTOBERE-USED,whichitismyjobtowashoutattheendofeachday.Theblackboysanchorthecondombytapingittothehairs;oldCatheterChronicsarehairlessasbabiesfromtaperemoval....

           Eighto’clockthewallswhirrandhumintofullswing.Thespeakerintheceilingsays,"Medications,"usingtheBigNurse’svoice.Welookintheglasscasewhereshesits,butshe’snowherenearthemicrophone;infact,she’stenfeetawayfromthemicrophone,tutoringoneofthelittlenurseshowtoprepareaneatdrugtraywithpillsarrangedorderly.TheAcuteslineupattheglassdoor,A,B,C,D,thentheChronics,thentheWheelers(theVegetablesgettheirslater,mixedinaspoonofapplesauce).Theguysfilebyandgetacapsuleinapapercup—throwittothebackofthethroatandgetthecupfilledwithwaterbythelittlenurseandwashthecapsuledown.Onrareoccasionssomefoolmightaskwhathe’sbeingrequiredtoswallow.

           "Waitjustashake,honey;whatarethesetwolittleredcapsulesinherewithmyvitamin?"

           Iknowhim.He’sabig,gripingAcute,alreadygettingthereputationofbeingatroublemaker.

           "It’sjustmedication,Mr.Taber,goodforyou.Downitgoes,now."

           "ButImeanwhatkindofmedication.Christ,Icanseethatthey’repills—"