It has all the accoutrements next to it: the ink gun, swabs and swaddles, bottle of alcohol. Bryan kicks over a small wheeled office chair and Miriam stares. "Go ahead," he says. "You sit. I want to pace." "Seriously?" "Serious as a pulmonary embolism. Which is, by the way, very serious. Now make the Google happen." She stands, lets him sit. He clicks an icon, a browserwindow pops up. Google across it in colorful letters. "What am I searching for?" "School bus." He shrugs, starts to type it in. "No, wait. A… type-A school bus. I wanna know what that means." He pulls up images of school buses. Then she gets it. "It's a short bus," she says. "A tardcart." "That's offensive." "Oh, sorry, buttercup, I didn't mean to tap-dance on your sensitive demeanor. You want a balm or perhaps an unguent for your rashy vagina?" "I'm trying to help you here.
