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"I want a fucking fag."

"Private...?"

"Spoon. I'm Spoon. I am Spoon, and I want a fucking fag." Six doctors of psychiatry, four doctors of psychology, and Dr. Rosana Ferguson relax and Spoon's hands fly up to cover his nose. The relief and joy that flood the room have him twitchy again, "There's too fucking many people in here. I want a fag."

Days of talking, one or two of them in the room at any given time. Two or three of them at a time walking along the green with him. Taking notes. Recording him. Talking to him.

Talking to him, not at him or about him. They're in a different cottage, somewhere else, where they can talk about him without him being near.

There are gaps. Huge ones. Where he went to school. Who he used to know. "Does the name Helen Stapelton mean anything to you?" "No, should it?" His parents are dim memories, and sometimes he pictures them with fur and fangs. And that's not right, is it Spoon? Not right at all.

There are things crystal clear. Sarge's face. Cooper's. Joe's. Bruce's. Terry's. That fucking cow. Still hysterical. Fuck, poor bastards. Poor, poor bastards.

He smokes more than he used to. He's a fucking chimney of smoke, one burns out and another fag is lit and dragged from.

"Spoon?"

"Yes, Dr. Ferguson?"

"Spoon, we're going to be calling Mrs. Wells. Sergeant Wells' wife? With any luck someone should be here to get you soon."

"Yes, Dr. Ferguson." Poor fucking woman...asked to get her dead husband's cursed squad mate.

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Ron 'Spoon' Witherspoon

March 2013

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