I ignored it. When I finished drying and turned to go out, he was gone. There was a pitcher of bright red liquid with ice cubes floating in it on the table by the bed, and a glass of it already poured sitting beside it. I splashed it down my throat with loud swallows, struggled into the pajamas, and slid under the covers. It seemed only an instant later-- "What made you afraid, January?" When I opened my eyes the hand shaking my shoulder stopped. "What made you afraid, January?" I stared without answering. Finally I closed my eyes to blot out that serene disinterested, hateful face. When I opened them again it was gone. I cursed with the vocabulary of the scum from New York to San Francisco. His psychological game was obvious, now. He hoped to wear me down, drive me to the point where I would tell him what I would never tell anyone, as the price of peace. He'd wake me again as soon as I fell asleep. He'd wake me again and again and again. And again.... "What made you afraid, January?" "Go 'way," I murmured drowsily. "What made you afraid, January? What made you afraid?" * * * * * No one but an alcoholic could possibly know how I suffered. With every cell in my body crying out in agony the only relief was the unconsciousness of sleep. Sleep, that welcomed me only to toss me back into the hell of consciousness and that mad, unemotionally reiterated question. "What made you afraid, January?" I grew to hate every syllable, every unvarying intonation and inflection. I began to force myself to stay awake each time, scheming ways to murder Dr. Leopold Moriss. I dreamed of him with his throat cut, going down, puffing unconcernedly on his cigar while his throat spurted out his life's blood. I dreamed of him falling to the sidewalk outside my window. "What made you afraid, January?" I dreamed I was raining blow after blow on his battered head while he sagged slowly to the floor, his face that of an unemotional, disinterested automaton. "What made you afraid, January?" I sucked in my breath. A moment later I heard the soft closing of the door. I opened my eyes. The room was empty. Slipping cautiously out of bed I took the pitcher of tomato juice to the bathroom and emptied it in the wash basin, then returned to bed with it, placing it under my pillows in such a way that I could bring it out and strike without warning. "What made you afraid, January?" I opened my eyes abruptly. The face above me bent closer suddenly, noting my new reaction. My hand was around the handle of the heavy glass pitcher. I drew in a deep breath. With convulsive movement I struck, only to feel the pitcher caught and pulled from my fingers. "I noticed it was gone," the doctor said calmly. "I'll get it filled again for you."