because of his thick glasses. We were friends because we read science fiction. I doubled up on Gold Medal novels of course, but since all the books and magazines we wanted could be found at the same drugstore—specialists in cherry Cokes—we always ran into each other. He was a relentless smart-ass. He was also now my doctor. He’d taken care, good care, of my father in his last two years. He was Wendy’s doctor as well. I was sitting on a bed in a large room filled with three gurneys and cabinets on every wall filled with various drugs and implements. Alan was sewing nine stitches into the back of my head and obviously enjoying the hell out of me wincing. “He’s too cute to die, doctor. Is he going to make it?” Wendy said. “Yes, he is pretty cute, now that you mention it. But it’s going to be touch and go,” the good doctor said as he finished his work. “Very funny, you two.” I hadn’t planned on coming back to the hospital in which my father died for a long time. Years, hopefully.
