George T. Death. I knew him of old.
In several guises.
I remembered the year I was ten, the year I had appendicitis, then
peritonitis, then general blood poisoning. Sometimes, at night, the
pain of my body, the pain of my tube-filled, pus-lathered guts will
come back to me. And the smell. The fever. The thirst. They didn't
believe in giving you liquids, then--not any--and I know what it's like
to be on the Sahara without a drop to drink--and your viscera opened
up, in the bargain.