He immediately spun around and pounded on the door and twisted the knob futilely. He hadn’t noticed us yet. “You can’t do this to me,” he said. “Let me out of here.” It was all automatic. In such a situation, people say things like that. Ken was opening his mouth and the sounds were coming out, syllable following appropriate syllable. This was Ken, even when he faced death. Ken with his automatic, proper, socially acceptable responses.
Giving it up, he turned away from the door, meaning to inspect the room.
“Jason,” he said abruptly, seeing us for the first time. “Maybe you can explain why they’ve brought me here, boy.”
“Maybe you can tell me,” I said.
“It’s all so confusing.” Ken limped toward us on his bad leg with the built-up heel and for the first time it was completely Ken’s leg,
