"God looooves you!" he said as we turned a corner.

So this was God's love. I'd have to track Paul down later, to let him know how much I appreciated it. After a day of rest, I could probably spit far enough to hit him.

Cholo Motherfucker stared out from under his bandana at me as we pushed past. His name was Raul -- elaborate, gothic letters across the back of his chair said so -- and bullet fragments had severed his spine between his shoulder blades. He still carried every ounce of L.A. gangland swagger that he had come in with, despite the fact that he was sitting in his own shit, a blue and white diaper bulging under his sweatpants.

young Asian woman -- Sandy -- her head gripped in a metal halo, swiveled awkwardly on her crutches to watch me. She was a Hopeful, someone who would be getting out of here someday, and probably someday soon. A car accident had snapped her neck, but she had lived and the damage was light enough that should could be taught to walk again. She was friendly, and nice, and outgoing, and roundly hated. Someday she would be walking, out, free, and any of us would have given anything to have that chance.

We passed a couple of Lumps, dragged out of bed and propped in front of a TV or a window because it made the staff feel better. One and Two -- I don't think anybody without access to the charts knew their real names -- titled in their chairs, their eyes blank and gauzy and empty, their minds either dead or trapped somewhere deep and dark inside their heads. Lumps are what people -- walking people, able people -- want to see the least, because their lifelessness speaks to every fear there is, living examples of the worst thing that can happen to someone. A Lump might as well be a piece of meat, a machine for turning food and air into shit and skin and fingernails. Even the Thumpers like Paul avoid them, because they are the very best evidence that God does not care one tiny damn about any of us. (from A (Bad) Novel)