O’Neill on a Tuesday, and on Friday she watched an unfamiliar young man step off the ferry and steady himself for a moment before continuing up the path to the hospital. He clutched his briefcase with both hands. “Mr. O’Neill?” she asked. She was waiting in the shadow of the hospital’s western wall. “You must be Mary,” he said, shaking her hand. She had so much to say and so many questions that she didn’t know where to begin. “Why don’t I check in?” he said after a moment, nodding at the hospital doors. “They’ll want me to sign something.” “I’ll wait down there,” she said, pointing to her hut. Twenty minutes later, after a brief conversation about what was what on the island—Mr. O’Neill seemed interested in the X-ray building—she showed him inside and watched as his gaze skittered across the counter to the pile of rubbage she’d collected for John Cane. She offered him tea, but he declined. He pressed his handkerchief to his nose, and then opened his briefcase and removed a pile of papers.
