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Bettmann's muffled protests grew weaker and weaker with each vial of blood that was drained from his body, and the room beyond his eyes began to grow dimmer and dimmer. Then, when his legs had long stopped kicking and bucking behind her, his tablemate was over his middle section and massaging him back to life.
Bradford Bettmann heard her reassure him even as he struggled for consciousness against the loss of blood. She paused long enough in her motions to rip the duct tape off his lips and stubble, and his only response was to stare at the ceiling and mutter, "Thank you, God!"