Nearly two years after his first stay at the Turner Ward of the Battle Hospital in Reading, my father is a different man. He has long abandoned his glasses and his dentures. He is thin, almost emaciated. He is inarticulate. His entire frame appears crushed and warped. There is not a trace of recognition upon seeing me, a nurse, another patient. On occasion he starts to say something, but he abandons the attempt almost immediately. He fiddles with a few things on the table in front of him. He stares around, sometimes pointing at something of interest, which he abandons a moment later. But it is still disarming when he stares into my eyes. He just stares and stares. My hope aroused again, I ask him whether he knows who I am. He does not respond, of course. As of late, he does not even nod, one way or the other. He just keeps staring into my eyes. His eyes are now round, devoid of thought, innocent, free of intention and will, artless, turtle-like. But my father is alive still, and I cannot but feel fortunate that they are taking good care of him at the Turner Ward.