—RRKK!—“Slightly radioactive still. On the foreign front the score is still in our favor in Burma—as for Belgium, I don’t want to talk about it, all right? Now let’s put an ear to the new hit by our favorite group The Pudknockers, ‘Why My Java Is Red White and Green’—”

Sandy Chapman turns off the radio. Groan, moan. Stiffness in the joints, he feels like an old man. Sunlight streams into the plant-filled, glass-walled bedroom; it’s warm, humid, smells like a greenhouse. Sandy manages to lever himself into a seated position. Angela is long gone, off to work in the physical therapy rooms at St. Joseph’s Hospital.

All the glossy green leaves blur. Bit of fuzz vision, too much eyedropping yesterday as usual, leads to a sort of eyeball hangover, as if he’d been teargassed or had his corneas sandblasted or something. He’s used to it. He gets up, pads off to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looks wasted. Dark circles under bright red eyes, stubble, mouth caked white, long red hair broken out of ponytail, looking electrocuted. Yes, it’s morning time. Ick.

In the kitchen he starts the coffee machine, sits staring out at the San Diego Freeway until it’s ready. Back to the bedroom, where he sits on the floor among the plants. Eyedrop a little Apprehension of Beauty … ah. That’s better. Just the lubrication feels good. He sips coffee, relaxes, thinking nothing: no worries, no plans. Odors of coffee, hot plants, wet soil. “Hey this is why my Java is red white and green,” he sings, “the blood in the jungle, the smoke white machine.…” This is the sole moment of peace in his day, waxy leaves around him glowing translucent green in the mote-filled sunny air, everything visible, a world of light and color.…

Need another cup of coffee. Fifteen minutes later the thought occurs to him again, and he stands. Oops got up too fast. Through warm patches to the kitchen. Ah, feeling much better now. Sensuousness of feet on warm tile, taste of coffee cutting through fuzz in mouth, video of Angela getting undressed last night, running on the kitchen screens. Ready to get a start on the day’s business. A day in the life, sure enough.

But first he stops to call his father, down at the experimental clinic in Miami Beach. They talk on the video link for twenty minutes or so: George seems good today, hearty and cheerful despite the pallor and the IV lines. Sandy finds it reassuring, sort of.

Then he’s dressed, alert, out the door to work like any other businessman.