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a futon. Quite a change. We'll be sleeping on
grass mats next. There were speaker grilles in the ceiling, but no
music was coming out.
There were four metal eye-rings set in the ceiling, too, over the
bed. New additions, I thought. There were crumbs of ceiling plaster on
the floor. He pushed the heavy, old-fashioned oak door shut with an
unnecessarily loud bang. He had my attention. I watched him from a
warm, cozy nest; I was floating again, detached, but watching. He
moved a chair to the foot of the bed, a heavy oak armchair; it looked
like a piece of old office furniture. Then he came over and sat on the
edge of the bed and stroked my forehead with his hand.
"How are you? Warmed up?"
I nodded.
"Good." He leaned down and kissed me. His hand felt good through
the covers. "I have a kind of test for you. But not if you're still
cold."
"I'm okay," I said, a little apprehensive. "What test?"
"You have to sit in the chair. The room is warm, though. I think
you'll be okay."
"Okay," I said, looking at the chair. When I didn't move he
slowly pulled the covers down to my waist. I sat up
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