Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Iwatchedthemwalkbyactingliketheyweregoingtothemagazinerackorthedrinkingfountain,sotheycouldsneakanotherlookattheface.Iwatchedandtriedtofigureoutwhathewouldhavedone.Iwasonlysureofonething:hewouldn’thaveleftsomethinglikethatsitthereinthedayroomwithhisnametackedonitfortwentyorthirtyyearssotheBigNursecoulduseitasanexampleofwhatcanhappenifyoubuckthesystem.Iwassureofthat.

           Iwaitedthatnightuntilthesoundsinthedormtoldmeeverybodywasasleep,anduntiltheblackboyshadstoppedmakingtheirrounds.ThenIturnedmyheadonthepillowsoIcouldseethebednexttomine.I’dbeenlisteningtothebreathingforhours,sincetheyhadwheeledtheGurneyinandliftedthestretcherontothebed,listeningtothelungsstumblingandstopping,thenstartingagain,hopingasIlistenedtheywouldstopforgood—butIhadn’tturnedtolookyet.

           Therewasacoldmoonatthewindow,pouringlightintothedormlikeskimmilk.Isatupinbed,andmyshadowfellacrossthebody,seemingtocleaveitinhalfbetweenthehipsandtheshoulders,leavingonlyablackspace.Theswellinghadgonedownenoughintheeyesthattheywereopen;theystaredintothefulllightofthemoon,openandundreaming,glazedfrombeingopensolongwithoutblinkinguntiltheywerelikesmudgedfusesinafusebox.Imovedtopickupthepillow,andtheeyesfastenedonthemovementandfollowedmeasIstoodupandcrossedthefewfeetbetweenthebeds.

           Thebig,hardbodyhadatoughgriponlife.