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I woke up slowly, stretching tentatively, feeling the aches and pains that came from the first week of hard work as a roustabout in the oilfields in and around Brea. I staggered out of bed, winced at the effort of pulling on my boxers, then tottered across the room feeling wooden, as if I had no joints. I opened the bedroom door and limped into the hall towards the bathroom. “Good morning, Brad,” said Mrs. Arnold from the breakfast nook. “Unnh. Morning,” I said. I looked...