He remained propped up as much as he could, resting on his elbows to try and look alert and attentive. Slowly, the weight of sleep was lifting, but still he felt heavy and groggy. When asked to do so, he pushed with a mighty effort, dragging himself with  just his arms into a seated position. The motion brought new, intense pain into his awareness, but he ignored it. Pain was no stranger to him and it would not master him. Once he was sitting up, he leaned against the headboard and lifted his hands over his lap. He was confused as to why it was so hard. He could move them, bend them, but he couldn't feel them. They were slow and clumsy, and when he tried to pluck at the blanket and lift it off, he couldn't feel the fabric, couldn't pull it off him. His feet were buried under the blanket, but he moved them a bit, and the bumps in the blanket that were his feet showed it. He could feel his feet, but his toes burned with a piercing pain as if they were in flames. He looked up to find the man sitting beside him, holding up a hand. His eyes had been blurry before, and they hadn't improved. He blinked a couple times, trying to clear his vision. Finally, he just shook his head, and spoke with honesty, "I can't tell, sir."<br/><br/>He knew this was the end for him. There was no way a slave who could not feel his hands, who could not see well enough to complete even the simplest task, and who could do nothing more than sleep. He would be discarded-- and he could feel only relief that it was all finally over. He squared his shoulders, determined to face it with pride.