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good wall. I’m building it myself, slowly, carefully, a very little bit at a time. I’m in no hurry to finish it, the construction is its own purpose, and the wall is emerging from the ground straight and solid and permanent. When done it will be two feet thick and ten feet high, enclosing the back yard of my house on three sides, with no openings. The house itself is the fourth side, and when the wall is finished the only way into the back yard will be through the house. I have been working on the wall now for over a year, except during the coldest part of the winter, and it has attained so far a height of just over two feet all the way around. This may seem like slow progress, but to me at times it seems far too fast, because I can see that a day will come when the wall will be finished, and what will I think about then?
    I turned my head, my mind full of thoughts about the wall, and gradually I began to recognize elements of the room I was in, and then memory fell into place and I remembered where I was and why I’d come here. And what had happened, the falling, the stairs speeding toward me, the dry snapping sound inside my arm.
    My arm. I tried to lift it, and it seemed to be held down with heavy weights. I lifted my head instead, and looked along the length of my arm, and saw a fresh white plaster cast covering it from just below the elbow to the middle of my fingers. And my head—which ached, a dull foggy ache that made me fuzzy-minded—was wrapped in bandages.
    So he’d gotten me. On arrival, a greeting from my prey. And I had come here warned against him.
    Was he warned against me? Did he know who I was and what I was doing at The Midway? Or was it purely accident that the accident had been arranged for me? That seemed more likely, and in any case I preferred to believe it.
    But how badly was I hurt? With my free hand I pressed and poked at my head beneath the bandage. Two areas near the right front responded with sharp pain, but my fingers didn’t find anything that seemed really serious. I probably had cuts and bruises up there, that’s all.
    My arm? Broken, no question of that. And any other injuries?
    I found it surprisingly easy to sit up, but the instant I did so a blinding headache swept over me, as though a bucket of liquid pain had been dumped on my head. I sat there with head bowed for half a minute or so, till the pain subsided again, and then took inventory of myself.
    I had a bad burn on my right knee. Also a tender spot in my rib cage on the right side. Those two, plus the head and the arm, seemed to be the extent of my injuries.
    I was amazed that I didn’t feel weaker, but then I saw the small puncture mark on the inside of my left elbow. A doctor had been to see me, of course, the cast on my right arm demonstrated that, and he must have given me something to make me sleep. I’d done a lot of my healing already, while unconscious.
    What time was it? The floor lamp was lit and there was darkness outside my windows now, meaning it had to be after nine o’clock at night, and it had been barely noon when I’d taken the spill. My watch had been taken off, along with the rest of my clothing, so I could only make guesses.
    I was starving. The question about time had made me suddenly stop and realize how hungry I was, and it was my stomach rather than my sense of duty or question about time that drove me to get out of bed.
    All movements affected my head, but by moving very slowly and carefully I managed to keep the pain to a low background irritation. I slid my legs over the side—I was dressed in nothing but pajama bottoms—and with a great deal of care stood up.
    Ah. I wasn’t quite as strong as I’d thought while in the safety of the bed. Standing was another matter. I leaned against the wall beside the bed for a minute, till a certain dizziness passed, and then stepped in slow small movements across the large room to the bureau on the opposite wall, on top of which I could see my