The voice trailed off and Pearson turned away.
“I shall try to remember,” Coleman said. He added gently, “I’ll come with you to the door.”
They climbed the stairs from Pathology, and on the hospital’s main floor the bustle of early-evening activity was just beginning. A nurse passed them hurriedly; she carried a diet tray, her starched uniform swishing. They moved aside to let a wheel chair by; in it was a middle-aged man, one leg in a cast, holding a pair of crutches like oars withdrawn into a boat. A trio of student nurses went past laughing. A Women’s Auxiliary worker propelled a cart with magazines. A man clutching a bouquet of flowers headed for the elevators. Somewhere out of sight a child was crying. It was the hospital world: a living organism, a mirror of the greater world outside.
Pearson was looking around him. Coleman thought: Thirty-two years, and he’s seeing it all, perhaps for the last time. He wondered: How will it be when my own time comes? Shall I remember this moment thirty years from now? Will I understand it better then?
On the public-address system a voice announced, “Dr. David Coleman. Dr. Coleman to the surgical floor.”
“It’s started,” Pearson said. “It’ll be a frozen section—you’d better go.” He held out his hand. “Good luck.”
Coleman found it hard to speak. “Thank you,” he said.
The old man nodded and turned away.
“Good night, Dr. Pearson.” It was one of the senior nurses.
“Good night,” Pearson said. Then, on the way out, he stopped under a “No Smoking” sign to light a cigar.