“Give me my clothes,” I said, sitting up. We were in a large ward full of beds, but only two were occupied, one by me and one by somebody or other near the door. I wanted to see the doctor and get the hell out of there, but when I tried to stand up I felt dizzy and my knees sagged. I was freezing cold even though there were some big radiators against the cracked walls.

“I’ll bring you another blanket,” the nurse said as she helped me back into bed. “You can see the doctor at noon. Is there anyone you want informed that you’re here?”

I didn’t reply and pulled the blanket over my shoulders. I fell asleep again until the next day and when I woke I felt fine and wanted a drink. The nurse—not the same one, another one—said that as far as the drink went, I could forget it, but that if I wanted to I could speak with the doctor. That was something, at least, a doctor. I said I wanted to see him right away and then go.

By now almost all the beds in the ward were occupied. I was led to an office with a cupboard and a desk. Behind the desk was a curt old man. The first thing he said, after I’d sat down opposite him, was to ask if I wanted to die.

“No,” I said.

“Then look at this,” he said, holding out a sheet of paper. I didn’t take it. He gave me a glance and put it down on the desk. “Do you know what sundown syndrome is?” he said. I shook my head, and he started reading aloud what was on the paper. I heard him say a whole lot of stuff about confusion, primitive personality disorders, anxiety attacks, mood swings, delirium, confabulation. I liked confabulation a lot. “Do you ever see mice?” he said. This one scared me. Why should I see mice? I wasn’t at that point yet. I didn’t say anything, but he noticed my concern and put the paper to one side. “Do you recall throwing an empty bottle at the mirror in a bar and then attacking the police? There’s a report about you.” All I remembered was the police officer. The doctor kept looking at me, then he dropped his pencil on the desk and delivered his verdict. “You should never touch another drop of alcohol,” he said. “Your liver won’t let you. You have to be careful. There are people who can drink and people who can’t. You can’t. Get that in your head, if you want to go on living. Otherwise, do what you like.”

“I won’t drink anymore,” I said.

“It’s up to you.”

“I won’t drink anymore,” I said again. “Can I go now?”