"Help!"
He twisted in the wheelchair — the full, lurching twist of someone who has forgotten that their body does not currently support this kind of motion — and his voice went up.
"Somebody — help — there is a man — he's—"
The nurse at the station continued typing.
The orderly pushing a cart past the corridor entrance continued pushing.
The family group near the elevator continued their quiet, private conversation about visiting hours.
Everyone moved in the fog of not-noticing, their eyes passing over the three of them — the woman with her jeans at mid-thigh, the naked man behind her, the young man twisted sideways in the wheelchair — with the smooth, uninterrupted indifference of people whose vision had been told there was nothing there worth processing.
"Nobody—" Kenji's voice cracked. "Can't anyone—"
His hands found the armrests.
He pushed.
