Eight
There was too damn much noise. Someone was hammering away inside my head with a pile driver. There was a radio or television set going somewhere, only the music sounded as if it were coming from a boiler factory. Nearer, somebody was drumming on wood in time to the music, and I could feel every blow he struck. I was about to complain about the noise when my memory began to come back. Somebody had been waiting behind the door in my room and had slugged me over the head.
I kept my eyes shut until I remembered all of it up to the point of blacking out. Whoever it was must have taken me someplace. I could feel that I was sitting in a chair, so I wasn’t still in transit. I wasn’t alone. There was a television or radio program on. That was about all I could tell with my eyes shut. Slowly
