Then you are discharged.

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Man in flimsy hospital gown with sweatpants — tucked in, so that was something — and a hospital bracelet. Bandage on the back of your hand. These things added up. I was concerned. I started to approach. Just as you pitched forward, opened your mouth, and emptied what seemed to be a hidden water-balloon of alcohol onto the sidewalk. It splashed up and out. Like a parlor trick. Like a rowdy bathtub wave.

It happened a few more times. The wind carried the smell. I lost track of what I was about to do, what I should be doing. I think you are my dad’s age. Man in the gown with the trappings of hospital still nestled all around you, why did you take out the bottle and drink more? The cells are already floating. The cells are already afloat.

What is happening? Why are you getting on the train? How did you even get on the train?

Where could you possibly want to go?

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