Death in the SixtiesMarcus Foreman awoke to a wavy red light brushing his venetian blinds and immediately knew its purpose. Lately, it took a few seconds to remember who and where he was—but not today. The red light saw to that. He held his breath and strained his ears and waited for that familiar sound of heavy rubber wheels rolling down the hallway outside his room. Soon it passed, along with the hushed conversation.
Marcus carefully slid to the edge of the bed, dropped his left leg, dangled it for several seconds allowing his muscles to expand, then pressed it all the way to the floor. Slowly, he swung his body around until it was perpendicular to the mattress and dropped his other leg. Now came the tricky part: sitting up. He brought his elbows to his side and with a grunt raised his
