Dale sat in the uncomfortably short chair, knees halfway up his chest.  He was facing out the window in his hospital room, staring mindlessly at the activity taking place in the streets below.  He felt like his mind was starting to disengage—in fact, it was like being really drunk—things were happening faster than he could hope to process them.  He’d been lucky to even manage to drag the chair over—he couldn’t remember having done it.