2:00. Pain 7. Hydromorph 2 mg x2. Bed bath. Vonnie.
6:15. Pain 5. None. Watched Jeopardy. Knew the bird one.
10:30. Pain 8. Hydromorph 2 mg x2. Senna x2.
2:40. Pain 9. Hydromorph 2 mg x2. Turned. Cried some.
He turned the pages. It went on like that, page after page, the same columns, the same abbreviations, times and numbers and milligrams and x1 and x2, like the log of a man running a register. He turned to the back. There the handwriting changed, went squarer, and it was only numbers in a column, one to a line, with dates beside them. 90. 84. 77. 70. 62. Then a line drawn across the page, and a new column. 19. 19. 19. 19. 19. 19. And beside the nineteens another column. 120. 108. 95. And on and on, down to today's date, and the last number, written this morning: 4.
On the inside of the back cover there was a grocery list. Coffee. Ensure — vanilla NOT chocolate. Bread. Senna. Batteries for the bell. Stamps.
He did not know what the bell was. He found that he wanted, very badly, to know what the bell was.
"Counts," he said. His own voice sounded strange to him, too loud. He cleared his throat. "You've got every pill accounted for. Every day."
"Yes."