We left at ten past six.
I did his obs in the car by the light of my phone, which he permitted, and he was tachycardic and his colour was bad and his sats were acceptable, and I told him so in the flat voice I use for families.
"Thank you, Doctor."
"Don't."
"I'm being sincere. It's the only sentence anyone has said to me this morning that had a number in it." He put his head back. "Everything else has been weather."
Bekele took us in the service gate and parked forty yards down the path, where a green Nassau County van was already standing with its rear doors open and four people in overalls unrolling a screen.
There is a particular kind of light at ten to seven in July. Nothing has decided anything yet.
"Which one is she," I said.
He didn't have to look for long.
Seventy-one, in
