When I reached the first floor I turned right, looking for the door with light leaking out from beneath it.

I found it, way up near the end of the corridor, and I didn't bother to knock.

The guy was sitting there in a garish bathrobe, at a big shiny desk, going over some sort of ledger. This was no ward room. He looked up at me with burning eyes all wide and lips swelling toward a yell they didn't reach, perhaps because of my determined expression. He stood, quickly.

I shut the door behind me, advanced, and said:

“Good morning. You're in trouble.”

People must always be curious as to trouble, because after the three seconds it took me to cross the room, his words were:

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said, “that you're about to suffer a lawsuit for holding me incommunicado, and another one for malpractice, for your indiscriminate use of narcotics. I'm already suffering withdrawal symptoms and might do something violent...”

He stood up.

“Get out of here,” he said.

I saw a pack of cigarettes on his desk. I helped myself and said, “Sit down and shut up. We've got things to talk about.”

He sat down, but he didn't shut up:

“You're breaking several regulations,” he said.

“So we'll let a court decide who's liable,” I replied. “I want my clothes and my personal effects. I'm checking out..”

“You're in no condition-”

“Nobody asked you. Pony up this minute, or answer to the law.”

He reached toward a button on his desk, but I slapped his hand away.

“Now!” I repeated. “You should have pressed that when I came in. It's too late now.”

“Mr. Corey, you're being most difficult ..

Corey?

“I didn't check me in here,” I said, “but I damn well have a right to check me out. And now's the time. So let's get about it.”

“Obviously, you're in no condition to leave this institution,” he replied. “I cannot permit it I am going to call for someone to escort you back to your room and put you to bed.”