Amid the labyrinth of poles, pulleys, forklifts and cranes that glitter in the sinking sunlight, the practiced eye of the retired police commander quickly locates the giant warehouse repurposed as a fictitious hospital, which in the weeks to come will turn into cinematic reality. Standing at the entrance are several extras awaiting assignment, based on personal choice or the needs of the production. The “eternal extra” is recognized at once, but no one asks his preference. “Elazar, you go to the morgue. Sorry, no way will your face appear in this series.” “But they’ll s-s-see my face as that of a dead man!” “And when they see you’re finally dead, it’ll be a relief.” Elazar sighs. “If that’s your decision.” “But you won’t be bored. There’ll be a story line in the morgue, a medical debate about your death, possibly ending in an autopsy.” “Most entertaining.” Now they ask his companion what she would like to be: a patient or the relative of one? If a patient, chronic or recovering?
