Her wheelchair stood in a near corner. A soft dimness had settled like a downy covering over every article in the spacious room. It was quiet, almost silent, except for the faint hiss of the environmental unit. The walls glowed dully, giving off the fine Tranquilium mist. The mist enveloped her, lulled her, was drawn thirstily into her skin. Estelle closed her eyes, sleep poised above her painted lids. The sound was a sharp snap: the breaking of a lock, the pulling away of a hinge. The mist was everywhere. Estelle tried to get up on her elbows, tried to raise her head. The lunks were through the door in seconds, and then upon her, dragging her from the bed. Perhaps she screamed. She couldn’t remember. The Tranquilium … If she had screamed, if she had made any sound, it was heard by no one. There were two lunks, dressed in the uniforms of Government laborers. One held her in his thick arms while the other tore open a closet door. He grunted something and reached inside. Quickly, the two lunks wrapped Estelle Gilcrest in her own blankets and carried her out.
