all four of the room’s windows weep against the outside cold. There are the sad tiny distant-champagne-cork sounds of scores of balls being hit down at the East Courts. Troeltsch drifts at a level just above sleep. Enormous ATHSCME displacement fans far up north at the wall and border’s distant roar and the outdoor voices and pock of cold balls create a kind of sound-carpet below the digestive sounds of the vaporizer and the squeak of Troeltsch’s bedsprings as he thrashes and twitches in a moist half-sleep.
