The sedatives they’d obtained were working for now, and Nijinsky couldn’t bear having Vincent tied up. Nijinsky stood looking down at Vincent as Vincent stared at the butcher-wrapped sandwich on the paper plate beside the snack pack of corn chips. “You have to eat something,” Nijinsky said. Vincent sat in a plastic chair. It was one of those molded things with spindly chrome legs. The chair was beside a bed in a narrow room that held little else unless you counted cockroaches. Not a place to rescue your sanity, Nijinsky thought. “Come on, Vincent, have a couple bites. The alternative is a feeding tube, and no one wants that.” Vincent stuck out one finger. He slid it into the gash formed by cutting the sandwich in half. He stuck his finger into that gap and seemed to be feeling the edges of the ham and cheese and lettuce and tomato. It was almost obscene. “Here, let me unwrap—” Nijinsky leaned forward to pull back the paper. The growl from Vincent was like something that might come from a leopard defending its kill.