Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           "Tired..."

           "Isaidyougoin’tothedorm,oldman!"

           Theblackboyjerkedathisarmagain,andPetestoppedwigwagginghishead.Hestoodupstraightandsteady,andhiseyessnappedclear.UsuallyPete’seyesarehalfshutandallmurkedup,likethere’smilkinthem,butthistimetheycameclearasblueneon.Andthehandonthatarmtheblackboywasholdingcommencedtoswellup.Thestaffandmostoftherestofthepatientsweretalkingamongthemselves,notpayinganyattentiontothisoldguyandhisoldsongaboutbeingtired,figuringhe’dbequieteddownasusualandthemeetingwouldgoon.Theydidn’tseethehandontheendofthatarmpumpingbiggerandbiggerasheclenchedandunclenchedit.Iwastheonlyonesawit.Isawitswellandclenchshut,flowinfrontofmyeyes,becomesmooth—hard.Abigrustyironballattheendofachain.Istaredatitandwaited,whiletheblackboygavePete’sarmanotherjerktowardthedorm.

           "Ol’man,Isayyougot—"

           Hesawthehand.Hetriedtoedgebackawayfromit,saying,"Youagoodboy,Peter,"buthewasashadetoolate.Petehadthatbigironballswingingallthewayfromhisknees.Theblackboywhammedflatagainstthewallandstuck,thensliddowntothefloorlikethewalltherewasgreased.Iheardtubespopandshortalloverinsidethatwall,andtheplastercrackedjusttheshapeofhowhehit.

           Theothertwo—theleastoneandtheotherbigone—stoodstunned.Thenursesnappedherfingers,andtheysprangintomotion.Instantmovement,slidingacrossthefloor.