The room was a small one, tucked away in the back hallway of a dingy bar in a back alley.  The bar itself, despite its lack of aesthetic appeal, was a popular dive amongst the degenerates who wandered the more squalid sectors of the city.  The liquor was cheap, as were the women, and there were no rules save for the occasional restriction the bartender would announce after consuming too much of his own supply.  But by the time that happened, the old bastard was usually too drunk to enforce those restrictions so no one ever really paid him any mind.  Not that it mattered to him anyway--the bulk of his profit didn't come from sales, legal or otherwise.  Most of his earnings were generated by the game room in the back--a room only few were aware of.
    And for good reason as Collin Fisk had come to realize.  He squinted at his cards and then looked up at the five men sitting around the poker table.  Some of the faces were grizzled and weathered, some scarred, but all looked long and forlorn.  The air was stale and smelled of marijuana and cigarettes and the suspended clouds of smoke lent an almost dreamlike quality to the environment.  Everyone seemed rather distant, their features vague and obscure.  It reminded Collin of those dream sequences he had watched in so many movies.
    But this wasn't a dream and there was no room for error.
    He turned his attention back to his cards, worn and frayed from months of consistent use.  His hand was hardly one to be desired.  But he had to play it.  There were no re-deals here.  His hands trembled as he thumbed through the cards.  He knew which three he would exchange, but he couldn't bring himself to throw them down.  He wanted to, but he just kept staring at them instead as if, by some divine miracle, they might change to something more favorable.
    One of the men sitting directly across the table--a middle-aged black man with some kind of Arabic phrase tattooed along his forearm--was growing increasingly impatient.  He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, drained his glass of what little whiskey remained, slammed it down, and went back to drumming.
    "Play if you're gonna play, motherfucker," he said. " We ain't got all night."
    Collin looked up at him, gave a slight nod, and went back to thumbing through his hand.
    "Okay," he said finally.  "I'll take three."
    He slid the chosen cards to the center of the table face-down and the dealer, a slender, sinewy young man in his mid-twenties, slid him three new ones.
    They weren't much better than the last, but they would have to do.
    After everyone had gotten their cards, an obese biker with superfluous sunglasses and a ridiculous English mustache took a deep breath and said, "All right.  Let's do it."
    "Choose a number," the dealer said.
    The biker hung his head and was quiet for a moment.  Collin figured he was trying to think of a number that he might consider lucky.
    "A number, sir," the dealer said again.
    "Sixteen."  The biker raised his head, looked confident.  "Let's do sixteen."
    The dealer nodded and moved a green square made of construction paper to the pot.  It had a large "16" stenciled on it in permanent marker.
    "Moving along," the dealer said.
    The black man was next and wasted no time.
    "Give me nine."
    The dealer complied and pushed another paper square into the pot.
    Next up was a man Collin took for a vagrant.  He wore a dirty grey hat with a missing band, camouflage pants smeared with dirt and other, more questionable, substances.  His jacket had holes around the collar and was worn over a stretched and wrinkled D.C. Talk t-shirt.  The old man laid his cards face-down on the table and folded his hands in his lap.
    "You must bet, sir," the dealer said.
    "I fold."
    "Sir, that isn't an option.  Bet."
    The old man shook his head.  "I told you I fold."
    "I'll only tell you once more," the dealer said.  "Bet or I will bet for you."
    The old man hesitated and then said, "No."
    The dealer stared at the homeless man, nodded, as if he understood, but Collin knew there was no understanding or mercy in a place like this.
    "The gentleman bets--let's see--number 5," he said.  "And for you, sir?"  He looked at Collin.
    Collin sighed, laid his cards down, and placed his hands on the whiskey-stained table.
    "Eleven," he whispered.
    The dealer leaned closer.  "Pardon, sir?"
    "I said eleven."
    "Gentleman has eleven."  The dealer placed the appropriate square in the pot.  "Show."
    The black man turned his cards over first.
    "Three cowboys," he said.
    Shit, Collin thought.
    The biker was next.  He had a pair of jacks.
    Collin glanced over at the homeless man.  He was trembling and sweating.
    The dealer looked back and forth between Collin and the hobo.  "Gentlemen?"
    Collin reached out and flipped his cards over.
    "Pair of nines," he said.
    At that, the homeless man bolted.  He pushed away from the table and darted across the room toward the exit, bumping into other players at other tables along the way.  There were two large men standing guard at the door, but that didn't seem to discourage the hobo.  He ran directly into them as they stepped into his path.  They grabbed onto him and forced him back to the table.  He was screaming and kicking and flailing about, but the men were undeterred.  They were simply too strong for the malnourished old man.  They turned around to face the table, but didn't let go of him.
    The dealer reached over and flipped his cards over.  "Hmm--high seven."  Then he reached out and flipped over the square with the number five written on it.  The old man gasped.  The word "KIDNEY" was written on the card in capital letters.  The vagrant began to cry.
    The dealer nodded to the two men who then proceeded to carry the hobo through a door on the other side of the room.  Collin watched them go and listened to the old man cry until the sound had finally faded away.  He didn't know what exactly was on the other side of that door and he sure as hell didn't have any interest in finding out.
    The dealer looked over at the black man. "Will you be claiming your prize, sir?"
    "Shit, nah.  It ain't what I need."
    The dealer nodded and addressed all of the remaining players at his table.  "Will anyone be leaving us at this point?"
    Collin wanted to leave.  He wanted to get up and walk right through the exit.  He wanted to go home.  But the very thought of home reminded him of why he was at this poker table in the first place.  His wife--God, he loved her.  And she needed something and it was something he could only hope to obtain here.  He had no money and no insurance and while her doctors claimed they would treat her regardless, Collin knew the truth.  There was a waiting list for the organ she needed and it was a long one.  Collin himself wasn't a compatible match and the truth was that the people with money and the people with insurance would move up that waiting list much faster than Rebecca would.  It was disgraceful and sad, but it was the way things were.  And that's what the game room relied on.  It preyed on the poor and the desperate and made an absolute fortune doing it.  It disgusted Collin and he figured that if he could ever get what he needed without losing anything himself, he would report this shithole to the police posthaste.  But he didn't have what he needed.  Not yet.
    No one spoke and the dealer nodded.  "Very good," he said.  And he dealt them another hand.
    The men exchanged their cards and placed their bets.  The black man was once again the first to show.
    "Pair of Aces."
    Collin smiled.
    About time.
    "Full house," he said with a smile.  "Got a full house."
    The biker went pale.  He reached out and reluctantly showed his cards.
    "Jack high," he said.  "Jesus fuck.  I lost."  His voice was low and it crackled under the stress of the admission.
    "So you did, sir," the dealer said.  The apathy in that acknowledgement bothered Collin.
    He enjoys this.  Sick son of a bitch actually enjoys it.
    But as badly as he hated to admit it, Collin  himself  had a difficult time sympathizing with the biker.  He had won this hand after all and if the biker had bet what he needed, he would gladly take it and depart and wouldn't really feel guilty about doing so.  Maybe it would bother him later, but right now he had other priorities.
    "Number seven," the dealer said.  "Correct?"
    The biker nodded and the dealer flipped the square.  Collin's heart sank.  The card read "LUNG" and Collin didn't need a lung.
    "Will you be accepting your prize, sir?"
    Collin shook his head solemnly.  "No."
    The dealer nodded and then summoned another burly man to the table since the other two hadn't returned.  The burly man stood behind the biker with his stalwart arms crossed over his chest. The biker remained still and didn't speak.
    "Sir, you can pay your debt with dignity or we can carry you out of here ourselves," the dealer said. " Your choice."
    The biker took in a sharp breath, rubbed his face with his hands.  And then stood.
    "All right," he said.  "All right."
    "That way," the burly man said, pointing toward the same mysterious door the homeless man had been carried through.
    The biker didn't make a fuss.  It would have been pointless.  He just shook his head and walked on, the burly man close behind.  Once they were through the door, the dealer made sure Collin and the black man were still game.  They both agreed to play the last hand and the cards were promptly dealt.  The black man traded two, Collin, three.
    "Number eight," the black man said.  "Let's get this shit over with."
    The dealer looked over at Collin.  "Your bet, sir?"
    Collin didn't even think about it.  It wasn't like it would do any good anyway.
    "Give me two," he said.
    "Show."
    Collin and the black man showed at the same time.
    "Straight," the black man said.
    Collin looked down at his own cards, stared at them, willed them to change.
    But they didn't.
    "Gentleman shows Ace high," the dealer said.
    Oh God, Collin thought.  Oh God, please.
    The dealer flipped Collin's square.
    Fuck.
    Collin's head started to swim and his hands started shaking.
    God no.
    He grew nauseous and short of breath.
    The dealer turned to the black man.
    "Will you be accepting your prize, sir?"
    The black man shook his head, frustrated.  "Nah, man.  I don't need no goddamn heart."
    "Very well," the dealer said.  "Feel free to choose another table if you like."
     Collin heard a door open and turned around to look.  One of the two men who had carried the homeless man away was coming back.
    Shit.
    "Sir," the dealer said, "it has been a pleasure, but I'm afraid you have a debt that must be paid."
    Collin didn't speak.  Didn't know what to say.  The large man approached the table and reached out to grab Collin, but he jerked away and stood up.
    "Don't fucking touch me," he said.  "I can walk."
    The large man followed him through the door and into a shabby little hallway.
    "Take a right here," the large man said.
    Collin did as he was told.  He surveyed the area, looking for a way out, but there wasn't one.  The hallway opened up into a large room.  There were seven gurneys positioned in a row and spaced about four feet from one another, wheels locked.  There were several people dressed like surgeons moving about, but Collin doubted any of them were licensed.  He could see the biker on one of the tables.  The surgeons had dissected him.  There were other people on the other six gurneys, but Collin didn't recognize any of them. They had the homeless man sedated and in a wheelchair off to the side. He was waiting his turn. Collin's stomach knotted.
     The large man called out to one of the few doctors who weren't busy and gestured for him to come over.  Collin looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing within reach.  He was fucked.
    He watched the surgeon draw up a concoction of fluids into a syringe.
    Oh shit.
    Collin waited until the doctor got close and then he attacked.  He whirled around and punched the large man in the face and then tackled the doctor.  Several more surgeons charged and Collin fought them off as best he could.  The large man, however, quickly recuperated from the punch and grabbed Collin from behind.  He lifted him off the ground in a bear hug and then fell forward.  Collin's face smashed into the cement floor and he cried out in pain.  The large man sat down on top of him, grabbed a handful of hair, and slammed his head into the floor a few more times for good measure.
   "Get the fuck off me," Collin shouted.
    The doctor who had first approached retrieved his syringe from the ground.
    "Get off me, you sick bastards!"
    Collin's nose was bleeding and he had a large cut over one eye, but it hardly mattered.  He didn't even feel it.  He was too wired, too scared.  The doctor closed in.  Collin squirmed around beneath the large man, but to no avail.  The doctor knelt down beside Collin and tried to find a place to inject whatever he had in his syringe, but Collin was kicking and fighting.
    "Hold him still," the doctor said.

    The large man grabbed a hold of Collin's hair again and pressed down on his head.
    The prick of the needle was hardly even noticeable, but whatever the doctor injected into Collin's neck burned like hell.
    "My wife," Collin said.
    The room began to spin and then it began to blur.
    "My wife."
    He felt an intense pressure in his head.
    "My--"
    He pictured his wife hanging curtains in the living room the day after they were married, the way they fluttered in the breeze. He saw her smile, could hear her laugh echoing in the chambers of his fading mind. She was so beautiful.  So innocent.  So charming.  So--