His hair is plastered on his sticky forehead; his sweat is gray.
In the morning the bed is empty, and adorned with clean sheets.
And along with the man annulled, all the things he had poisoned have disappeared.
"It'll be Number Thirty-six's turn next," says the orderly.
I follow the direction of his glance.

I see the condemned man.

He is writing a letter.

He speaks, he lives.

But he is wounded in the belly.