I put on my white overalls. Heaven knew they were impersonal enough, and I put my money into one of the pockets—just in case. Just in case of what? There would be no more escapes. And then, feeling sore and weak as a kitten, I dragged myself over to the lobby.
It was eleven o’clock. The rain was still holding off and a three-quarter moon sailed through fast, scudding clouds, making the forest blink intermittently with white light. Sluggsy was framed in the yellow entrance, leaning against the door, chewing at his toothpick. As I came up, he made way for me. “That’s my baby. Fresh as paint. A little sore here and there, mebbe. Have to sleep on your back later, huh? But that’s just what’ll suit us, won’t it, honey?”
When I didn’t answer, he reached out and caught my arm. “Hey, hey! Where your manners, bimbo? You like some treatment on the other side, mebbe? That also can be arranged.” He made a threatening gesture with his free hand.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”
“Okay, okay.” He let me go. “Now just get on back there and make with the pots and pans. An’ don’t go getting my gauge up. Or my friend Horror’s. Look what you done to that handsome kisser of his.”
The thin man was sitting at his old table. The first-aid box from the reception desk was open in front of him and he had a big square of adhesive across his right temple. I gave him a quick frightened glance and went behind the serving counter. Sluggsy went over to him and sat down, and they began talking together in low voices, occasionally glancing across at me.
Making the eggs and coffee made me feel hungry. I couldn’t understand it. Ever since the two men had got in through that door, I had been so tense and frightened I couldn’t have swallowed even a cup of coffee. Of course I was empty from being sick, but in a curious and, I felt, rather shameful way the beating I had been given had in some mysterious fashion relaxed me. The pain, being so much greater than the tension of waiting for it, had unraveled my nerves, and there was a curious center of warmth and peace in my body. I was frightened still, of course—terrified, but in a docile, fatalistic way. At the same time my body said it was hungry; it wanted to get back its strength, it wanted to live.
So I made scrambled eggs and coffee and hot buttered toast for myself as well, and, after I had taken theirs over, I sat down out of sight of them behind the counter and ate mine and then, almost calmly, lit a cigarette. I knew the moment I lit it that it was a foolish thing to do. It called attention to me. Worse, it showed I had recovered, that I was worth baiting again. But the food and the simple business of eating it—of putting salt and pepper on the eggs, sugar into the coffee—had been almost intoxicating. It was part of the old life, a thousand years ago, before the men came. Each mouthful—the forkful of egg, the bit of bacon, the munch of buttery toast—was an exquisite thing that occupied all my senses. Now I knew what it must be like to get some food smuggled into jail, to be a prisoner of war and get a parcel from home, to find water in the desert, to be given a hot drink after being rescued from drowning. The simple act of living, how precious it was! If I got out of this, I would know it forever. I would be grateful for every breath I breathed, every meal I ate, every night I felt the cool kiss of sheets, the peace of a bed behind a closed, locked, door. Why had I never known this before? Why had my parents, my lost religion, never taught it to me? Anyway, I knew now. I had found it out for myself. Love of life is born of the awareness of death, of the dread of it. Nothing makes one really grateful for life except the black wings of danger.