“His knees had suddenly lost their elasticity, his calves gone slack, and there he was, in the wheelchair, staring up at the ceiling like an octogenarian with egg in his lap. The Doctor—Dr. Kellogg, the Chief, the great and famous healer in the white spats and matching goatee—had disappeared, hustling off down the hallway till he receded in the distance like a scrap of paper blown by the wind. He’d been cordial enough—Will couldn’t fault him there—but he’d seemed distracted, frazzled, not at all... the solid and immovable rock he’d expected. Not that it mattered. Not anymore. Not in the face of that cursory but terrifying examination. The great man had stuck his fingers in Will’s mouth, though he was so short—another surprise—that he had to go up on tiptoe to insert them, and Will had seen the look of alarm in his eyes. It was a look that penetrated to the core of Will’s being, a look that prefigured the coffin and the funeral wreath, and suddenly Will had felt as sick and weak as he’d ever felt in his life.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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