We dismissed Curie and the subway, ascending to our car's level in the parking ramp. The sun shone brightly through the ramp's open construction of cement and steel. I squinted instinctively and turned my head away. Once in our kitchenette, I turned on the T.V. and stretched out on the couch. The drapes were drawn shut and I preferred them to remain so; natural light never seemed to enhance the appearance of a motel room and lent the furniture and other appointments a rather brash, gaudy flavor. Light brought forth defects with indisputable accuracy; as the drugs flowed through my body, I knew that the awaited irregularities of treatment would soon parade victorious and unabashed about the domicile, and out of sheer discord, I too, would shun the sun's scathing glance. My only wish was to blend into the shadows and lie completely unobserved. The TV was, at once, a blaring disturbance and a welcome distraction. It helped pass the time, but also reminded me of the slow rate at which time was drifting away. Between soap operas and game shows, advertisements about detergent that actually conditioned one's hands, and gasoline; "Ping, ping, ping, Leonard..." filled the afternoon. Suddenly I realized that my first post-treatment symptom was beginning its onslaught. Nausea woke my deadened senses and I sat up, nervously alert, trying to decide whether I should make my painful exodus to the bathroom or stay seated on the sofa a brief while longer; sometimes the mere sight of a gaping toilet bowl was enough to prompt my nausea to overflow, and picturing the sight in my mind, I decided to put off the inevitable until I was certain I could wait no more. As it happened, within minutes I could wait no more and ran headlong for the bathroom, emptying what little remained in my stomach from breakfast into the toilet's wide jowls; it was a small offering, yet peering at it wrenched my stomach's deepest confines and I vomited again and again, flushing the awful stuff from view. Relaxing as best I could, I exhaled and sunk back on my haunches, then slowly shifted until my legs were crossed. Resting one elbow on my knee, I cupped my hand under my chin and listed to the right. Mom stood outside the bathroom door, worried and helpless. "Can I help you?" she asked cautiously. "No" I said into the palm of my hand, not wanting to move, knowing the surges within had just begun. She brought me a glass half-filled with 7-Up, which I accepted gratefully. The putrid taste in my mouth was masked after bathing it in soda, yet my stomach did not allow it to be digested, and I quickly relinquished my meager sampling to the stool. Water affected my stomach in the same way; nothing was accepted.