They sat for a long time in silence. Perhaps an hour, perhaps more. Then Maria began to murmur. Nobody moved. The tape recorder ran, as it had run, since they started. Only two of them in the group knew English well, but all of them _listened_ with the same deep attention. From time to time, someone came in and took over a seat from one of the circled sitters. Maria stayed where she was, quite content. _Rockland--Saturday, October 15_ Someone was screaming. It wasn’t Doug, because Doug wasn’t Doug now, just a million little Dougs and his leg itched where the Dougs kept biting, _damn! damn Lisa, Lisa wouldn’t scream, ice cream, whipped cream, Lisa whip cream, lovely Lee, Lee, Lee...._ “_Leeeee!_” He opened his eyes for one moment, saw the ceiling of the living room, felt floor rug underneath, and heard his own voice screaming, “_Leeeeee!_” He closed his eyes, shut his mouth tight, moved convulsively, rolled over, and lay on the floor a long time, sobbing without sound, dry angry sobs that shook his frame and jarred his guts--but brought no release, so after whatever time, long time, it was, he stood up, got his balance, and walked steadily through the house into the kitchen. Turned, went back through the living room and bedroom to the shower. Shower first. He had a sour smell that sickened him. He came out of the shower and blower and stood in the bedroom and thought it would be nice to sleep. _One drink and go to sleep...?_ He put his shorts on, and a shirt, socks, shoes. Cup of coffee, maybe ... _might wake up_. He didn’t _want_ to sleep again. _Okay--coffee._ He started back through the living room to the kitchen. The house was a wreck, and the floor was full of broken glass, but that.... He saw the car outside, and remembered.... There it was. _The damn window was busted!_ How in Hell had he managed _that?_ He could figure that out later. And clean things up later. Right now, no time--first things first. First thing was Lee. _Quick!_ before he was too late. _Too late already, anyhow: too late for Doug, for ever, too late._ Too late for lots of things, too late for Johnny? Maybe, but if not too late for Lee, then maybe...? He remembered some more. He couldn’t go. _Couldn’t_ go. _Couldn’t?_ He took the word out, out of his aching head, and looked at it. Studied it, turned it over, tried to turn it inside out, but there it was, all the time, like a neon light: c-o-u-l-d-n-apostrophe-t Couldn’t. He shook his head tiredly, but the letters danced behind his eyelids even when he closed his eyes. He was very very tired. He took off his jacket and went into the bedroom and took off his trousers and lay down. When he awoke again, it was dusk. He knew exactly what he had to do. He was cold sober, not hung over, fiercely hungry too. But he was afraid it might already be too late to get things done today. Which day? Friday? Saturday? _Sunday?_ Eating could wait.