In six weeks, I am in the chair again. I give my wrist for a band. Yes to coffee. I wear wool socks. It is eight o'clock. A man in a suit sleeps a chair over. A nurse opens my vein and hangs a cold bag of the drug. She covers my arm with a starched blanket. She sets the drip slow. She disappears behind the station. I recline. A nervous man in cargo shorts rushes into the room. Maybe he reaches for a gun. Maybe I tear the needle out of my arm and I run. Maybe I make it out. Whatever, it is useless. I only die somewhere else. Remember. I am fruit off the vine. I do what I have to. I sit and suck and hang and ripen.