3
CHEYENNE
It turned into a very long afternoon.
Dr. Abrams is a tall, lean, slightly bent man with thinning white hair that escapes his watch cap in wisps and thin hands that constantly tremble. He’s kind and polite to us both, listens to what we have to say, and does indeed, eventually, sign the papers. But it requires a lot patience to listen to him ramble half-drunkenly about medical ethics.
By the time we sign the papers, we've been with him for five hours. Abrams looks at the two of us and smiles. "Saving these patents is what your father would have wanted, Darren. I'm glad to be of help."
My head is pounding, and Darren's smile is faintly strained. Neither one of us complains. It's clear the old man is lonely and a bit addled—maybe from the pain or maybe from living alone on a
