The bed was soft. The kind you sink down into, surrounded by billowing piles of shiny pink satin, fluffy orchid wool, white sheets, and an atmosphere of apple blossoms, with your head resting on down softer and warmer than your mother's breast. The pajamas were new and my size, obviously bought in anticipation of my showing up. I stood teetering in the middle of the bedroom, looking at them, the sound of water running into a tub coming from the adjoining bathroom. Tears forced themselves into my eyes. Hot scalding tears. Paula stood less than three feet from me, an eager expression on her face, like a Spaniel wiggling in expectation of voiced approval. I turned and staggered blindly toward the door. I wanted to get out. I felt strangled. I couldn't breathe, couldn't possibly get another breath of air until I got out of this house and felt my feet on God's pavement again. I fumbled for the knob, groaning in frantic desperation to escape. My fingers settled around the knob. I jerked the door open and started out into the hall. The placid face of a man twice my size, radiating peace and good will, blocked the doorway. I blinked at him blearily, backing away a step or two. He blinked back like a simpleton trying to understand geometry. "Oh, January," Paula said behind me. "This is Carl Friedman, our Jack-of-all-work." "Pleased to meet you, January," the giant said, sounding like an uncouth character concentrating on not saying pleeze t'meetcha. My snarl was purely animal as I slammed the door on him and turned back into the room. I stood there, swaying and holding my head for a minute. "All right," I gave up. "Get out. I'll take a nice warm bath and bury myself in apple blossoms. Then you can bring me some grapefruit juice and radiate at me like a harvest moon. Only get this straight. I hate your old man. I hate him more every minute." "That's all right," Paula said, going to the door and opening it. "I hate him too--sometimes." Carl backed away far enough for her to get out. She flashed me a sympathetic smile. The door closed. I was alone. With the smell of apple blossoms. And my hate. I took off my clothes and climbed into the tub. The temperature was just right. I sighed in reluctant contentment, splashing around a little to help the warmth soak in. "What made you afraid, January?" Dr. Moriss' voice came from the doorway. I catapulted to my feet, water cascading off my body over the edge of the tub onto the floor. Glaring at him I carefully stepped out of the tub, my hands working in choking motions. He watched me with that air of detached interest he would have used in observing the motions of a monkey in a zoo. I glared at him another moment, then turned my back on him, drying myself with the thick turkish towel. "What made you afraid, January?" It was patient repetition, insistent and unemotional. A school teacher repeating a question to a stubborn pupil.