He did not answer; Rachel seemed unimportant now. He wanted sleep and an end to his pain.

“The D.A. asked you do you want to see your wife, boy?” Lawson shouted into his ear.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, dreamily.

“Look, then,” the grey suit said in a caressing voice, “sign this paper. I wrote it all out for you. Just sign it and you can see your wife . . .”

He stared with unblinking eyes at a white sheet of paper covered with blurred lines of black.

“What does this paper say?” the grey suit asked.

He tried desperately to read the paper, but he could not focus his eyes. As he sat staring at the white blur, he heard the faint clatter of horse hooves on the pavement below, then the jangling of metal against metal. My God! That’s the milkman. . . . It’s four o’clock in the morning. . . .

“Let me go home,” he moaned.

“Sign the paper and you can go,” the grey suit said.

His eyes filled with tears. His head ached and the voices of the men came out of a dream, repeating: “Read the paper and sign it . . .” The grey suit shoved the paper into his fingers and he held it for a moment, looking at the print running in hazy black waves across the wavering white. Then the paper fluttered from his numbed fingers and slid along the floor.

“Sonofabitch,” Lawson muttered and slapped him again.

He fell from the chair and his body rolled along the floor until it struck a wall; he lay inert, wrapped in semidarkness. A wave of heat engulfed him and in a confused dream he thought that he was back at Mrs. Wooten’s house, running the electric lawn mower over the bright green grass. Then rough fingers tugged at his clothes and he was lifted back into the chair.

“Sign the paper, boy!” he heard Lawson shouting.

He wanted to answer, but he had no control over his numbed lips. The faint clang of a streetcar came to him from far away. Lord, what time is it? He sagged toward the floor, but the stinging blows of their bare palms against his cheeks kept him hovering precariously within the circle of consciousness. The white splotch of paper waved again before his eyes.

“Sign it and get it over with,” the grey suit said.

He swayed and groaned. Times without number the thunderous voices cut into his ears and his brain and his blood. But he made no attempt either to read or sign the paper. He felt hypnotized, in the grip of a force stronger than he. There were periods of utter blankness when he was not aware of what was being said. He sat uncertainly on the edge of the chair, his lids blinking now and then to shut out the intense glare of the electric light that dangled before his eyes.

Hot tears searched their way down his black cheeks; he swallowed and leaned forward, yearning for oblivion, yet telling himself that he had to sign the paper. The smear of white fascinated him with a deep and terrible finality. He tried to focus his eyes again, but he could not. The harsh voices began again: “Sign the paper, boy . . .”