At some point after that, I remember being wheeled under bright lights. A man in a white mask bent over me. He was standing at the head of the table I was lying on (1953 and 1954 were my years for lying on tables), and to me he looked upside down. “Stephen,” he said. “Can you hear me?” I said I could. “I want you to breathe deep,” he said. “When you wake up, you can have all the ice cream you want.”
