A Friend of the Earth by T. C. Boyle Page A

to reinsert the IV with the abraded tips of her cold, rough fingers. The stab of it was no more than a bee sting, the merest prick, but he couldn’t help thinking they were taking somethingfrom him – draining him, drop by drop – instead of putting something back in.
    When he woke again, he checked his watch, and his watch told him it was morning. There was no confusion about where he was, none of the dislocation he’d experienced a hundred times in pup tents and motel rooms or on the unforgiving couch at a friend’s house – he woke to full consciousness and saw everything in the room as if it were an oil painting he’d spent the whole night composing. Central to the composition was Deputy Sheets, seated, thin cloth pressed to narrow shanks, skull thrown back against the wall behind him, mouth agape. Long shadows. Early light. Deputy Sheets was asleep. Stationed by the door, it’s true, but lost in the wilderness of dreams.
    Stealthily, Tierwater slipped the IV from his arm. His thoughts, at this juncture, were uncomplicated. He was getting out of here, that’s all he knew, vacating this place, sidestepping the emaciated arm of the law and making his way to his daughter, his wife, the outraged and militant cadre of E.F! lawyers who would make everything right. And the reporters too – don’t forget them. They had to hear about this, about the desecration of the forest, the complicity of the sheriff and the brutality of Boehringer and Butts, and he did want to preach, yes, he did – preach, proclaim and testify. His feet were on the floor, the papery hospital gown rustling at his shoulders. And where were his clothes – his wallet, his keys, his belt? They took those things away from you in jail, that much he knew, but were they as scrupulous at the hospital?
    Across the room to the closet. Nothing there. The bathroom. Easing the door shut, one eye on Deputy Sheets, the whir of the fan cyclonic, and he was sure the noise of it would rouse his jailer –
Just taking a leak, officer, and I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s against the law too —
but no, Sheets slept on. In his gown, on silent feet, Tierwater vacated the bathroom, slipped past the innocuous lump of creased and pleated matter that was the deputy and out into the corridor. He was dimly aware of adding yet another offense to the list Sheets had recited for him, but the great hardwood forests of the East and Midwest had been decimated by men like Sheriff Bob Hicks and Boehringer and their ilk, and the redwoods and Doug firs were going fast – this was no time for indecision.
    The corridor was deserted. Cadaverous light, eternally fluorescent – nobody could look healthy here. His powers of observation told him he was on the second floor, judging from the view to the middle reaches ofthe trees just beyond the windows at the far end of the hall, and he understood – from the movies, primarily, or maybe exclusively – that the elevator would be a mistake. Nurses, orderlies, gurneys transporting the near–dead and partially alive, anxious relatives and loved ones, interns, candy stripers – they’d all be packed into that elevator, and all wondering aloud about his bare feet and bare legs and the disposable paper gown that left his rear exposed. And that was another thing – what had become of the diapers? The thought shrank him. He pictured the blocky nurse cutting the things off of him, her nose wrinkled in disgust, and then he changed channels and headed down the corridor, looking for the stairwell.
    Twice he had to duck into occupied rooms – a subterranean light, tubes, hoses, the electric winking eyes of the machines that took note of every fluctuation and discharge – to avoid detection by prowling nurses. No one seemed to notice. They were busy with their tubes and monitors, busy trying to breathe, a collection of tired old beaks and chins grimly