There is a pink plastic tray to vomit in on the small, shining steel table next to the bed. All the discomforts of home.

A new voice, female, beyond the curtain.

“What’d I do with my pen? I’ve lost two today.”

A man in hospital blues, dark haircut almost scalp short, clipboard in his hand, walks slowly by, talking to an older woman in blues with washed-out blond hair.

They glance at me through the parted curtain and walk on. I hear him say, “Dr. Greenspan wants him in op in ten minutes.”

The woman says, “Okay.”

“Saturday morning,” the man’s voice comes back.

“Saturday morning,” the woman repeats.

I listen to more blips and bleeps. A man moans from somewhere; two female voices giggle. Is there going to be a third? Does Dr. Greenspan know what he is doing or looking for? Who is this Dr. Greenspan?

My back aches. I have a headache.

I wait, listening for the wheels of a gurney moving to the room I am in. I wait to look up at whoever will be pushing it. I imagine a thin-haired, short, well-muscled orderly in blue, his hairy arms, and a wide-band metal wristwatch. I wait for him to cheerfully say, “It’s time.”

The road from a cold Dairy Queen Blizzard to the hospital emergency room began five days earlier.

Three people had died in those five days. There was a good chance there would be a fourth soon, a fourth who lay in a small triage room, a fourth whose odds were not looking too good.

Sally Porovsky steps into the room and looks down at me.

“How does it look, Lew?” she asks.

I don’t have a good answer. I try a smile. It doesn’t work. She takes my right hand in both of hers.

It had been bright and sunny and humid and definitely Florida when I got up healthy on Monday. Time generally seems to move slowly for me, but on Monday the clock began to spin.