“I remember liking everybody,” Pavel told me with a shrug. “Some of that’s painkillers, but you have to understand: I thought I was a goner, I’m surprised I woke up at all. So I love those people, forever. They really cared. People from around here don’t carry much weight in Mimico, but you’d never know it from the way the doctors treated me.”

“And how did you feel when you found out about the trial?”

Pavel lit another cigarette, and with it burning in his lips, he slapped his forearm with two fingers, smiling, and said, “White blood.”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was pretty damn wild, plastic running through my veins. I’m like a medical miracle.”

“Did they explain to you the idea of informed consent?”

“Yeah, but how I see it, they didn’t have a choice, it was the only way to save my life. I’m grateful they made the decision. But then, I’m grateful an ambulance came at all. That wasn’t exactly common here, before the purple trucks. You know, I feel bad for all those people, all over the country, bleeding to death while we sit here right now.”

“Did Dr. Kriss talk to you about that?” I said, remembering her speech about the permanent drought.

“Who’s Dr. Kriss?”

“She invented the solution.”

“No shit? No, I never met any Dr. Kriss. But the doctors at the hospital said how many people die from blood loss, it’s like hundreds every day, and how they’re going to change all that.”

I asked how long he’d stayed at Legacy General.

“I think it came to fifty-eight days,” Pavel said. “Believe me, everybody was nice, but by the end I wanted to get the hell out of there. All I could think about was getting back home. The Common Dreams people said they’d secured the house for me, but by the time they got here, all my shit was gone. At least I didn’t have any squatters.”

“And have you had to check in at the hospital?”

“They send a guy around to check on me.”

I took this to be the means of observation Dr. Kriss had mentioned in Arcade.

“Is his name Rainer?”

Pavel shrugged. “Could be.”

As I jotted down some notes, he said, “So this is really going in a magazine?

“Yes.”

“Will you send me a copy?”

“Sure, I can do that.”

“I want—” Pavel paused, his gaze zoning out on the array of pill bottles. “Quote me on this.”

“Alright.”

I had the pen ready, but he seemed engulfed, the next wave of medication washing over him. I pictured the pills in his belly, breaking down in beer. Later, I had to replay his words a few times just to make them out: “I want to thank the doctor,” he said. “I want to say thank you for saving my life.”