“Hi, Louis,” she murmured.
“Pris, I had the courage; I went and told him what you said to say.” I bent to touch her. “I’m free. They discharged me. I can go home.”
“Then go.”
At first I did not understand. “What about you?”
Pris said calmly, “I changed my mind. I didn’t apply for a release from here; I feel like staying a few months longer. I like it right now–I’m learning how to weave, I’m weaving a rug out of black sheep wool, virgin wool.” And then all at once she whispered bleakly, “I lied to you, Louis. I’m not up for release; I’m much too sick. I have to stay here a long time more, maybe forever. I’m sorry I told you I was getting out. Forgive me.” She took hold of my hand briefly, then let it go.
I could say nothing.
A moment later the attendant led me through the halls of the clinic to the gate and left me standing outside on the public sidewalk with fifty dollars in my pocket, courtesy of the Federal Government. Kasanin Clinic was behind me, no longer a part of my life; it had gone into the past and would, I hoped, never reappear again.
I’m well, I said to myself. Once more I test out perfectly, as I did when I was a child in school. I can go back to Boise, to my brother Chester and my father, Maury and my business; the Government healed me.
I have everything but Pris.
Somewhere inside the great buildings of Kasanin Clinic Pris Frauenzimmer sat carding and weaving virgin black sheep’s wool, utterly involved, without a thought for me or for any other thing.