He seems to be doing okay now. Laura explains, A lot of people won’t do the injection. Why is that? he asks.
More people enter the lobby. It’s impossible to hear Laura’s answer. A man in a dark-green shirt thumbs through a magazine, snapping the pages flat with his huge hands.
A man wheels in, wearing his breathing apparatus, his black umbrella across his lap. The woman behind the desk says, Hi Peter. In a cloudy voice, he mutters, Hi. Two women walk together slowly through the room and sit among us quietly.
In a consultation room, a physician slides two prints of x-rays onto the light board as if they were Van Goghs newly discovered in a Parisian room.
We could be sitting down the street at small tables in a neighborhood café. It is 1967 in the spring. Voices in conversation ring from the plaster walls. The scents of fresh bread and coffee circulate in the room. The intermittent breeze from the screen door brings in a touch of peach blossoms.