I had the usual stuff in the bag: chocolate bars, chips, cereal bars, bottles of juice, newspaper, spare toothbrush, toothpaste, that kind of thing—all the objects, necessary and unnecessary, that you carry to the hospital and put in the bedside cabinet, just in case and because you never know. The road was a busy one, five lanes of thundering traffic, with preoccupied drivers at the wheels, thinking of deadlines and commitments and obligations; of clients who had to be visited and things that had to be done; of work and meals and children to be picked up; of marriages on the rocks; of love just lately come along, and love dying; of holiday arrangements and financial problems; of property; of rents; of mortgages; of concerts; of football games; of ideas for novels; of manuscripts dispatched and of fame and money to come. We stood in a bunch, waiting for the green man to start flashing so that we could stream across and walk on up to the hospital.
