What Are the Symptoms Dear?

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Michael Thomas Rigsby dreamed that he was at a booth at some sort of a midway. They were serving baked potatoes on sticks, the way, in the lost years, candy apples had been purchased. They looked steaming and delightful, but when he tried to eat them they had no more substance than spun sugar candy.

Frustration awakened him. The windows were gray. The luminous dial* of the alarm said four. There was a great gnawing in his stomach. After a time he got up, careful not to awaken Annabelle who breathed deeply beside him.

He squinted at the light inside the refrigerator and saw nothing that looked remotely filling. He settled for a glass of milk, and even that seemed to have little substance.

Back in bed he began to worry about himself. Could a man who liked his work and had a relaxed approach toward life get ulcers? It seemed as if, of late, hunger pangs were always with him. That had been a wonderful steak Annabelle served last night — as much an esthetic experience as a meal. Annabelle was a fine cook, indeed. Even Mickey and Sis had eaten hugely, and at nine and ten their appetites were sporadic.

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