![]() ![]() Hesitating, the patient described the woman and their relationship.Ībrams nodded. ![]() Then: I want to talk about your mother, Abrams said. How do you feel? he asked, constricting his heavy brown eyebrows.įeel? the patient responded blankly, deep in the well of a trance.Ībrams noted the patient’s discomfort. Martin Abrams carefully packed his handmade pipe, lit the tobacco, and glanced into the file on the right side of his desk. Then she screamed, her lungs seared by a blast of hot air, her skin shriveled on her body. She fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on. She jiggled the knob and opened the door it was black inside. But could she? Someone was certainly hurt, possibly caught in the compactor. It was blood-a trickle coming from under the door. There was a dark blotch in front of the garbage compactor room. She walked down the corridor and stopped. Her legs seemed incapable of feeling, paralyzed. Hello, she said, as she moved slowly past the janitor’s dressing room. Or was it her imagination? No more trying to beat the rush to the machines. She moved to the basement, telling herself to remain calm. ![]()
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