His words gave me an opportunity to regard him in earnest. I said, “I think it’s the cheekbones … maybe the nose.”

“The famous Haile Selassie nose.”

“You’re both tall, thin, and black. But that’s it. It is bizarre how people make an association to what’s familiar.” I smiled. “Besides, you don’t have that little tuft of chin hair.”

He laughed. “It is funny you say that. Last year, I got it in my head to grow facial hair. I get about three weeks’ worth of beard, then change my mind and shave it off—too hot under the face mask. But I shave it off in stages and I wind up with a half beard … some chin hair. So one afternoon I get off shift and meet a friend who works in Hem-Onc—oncology is cancer. I usually don’t rotate through that wing, so the kids don’t know my face so good. Plus, I was in my regular clothes and wearing boots with big heels, so especially to the children, I must have appeared very tall. I think I have on sunglasses, too.”

“Big diamond earring?”

“No, no diamond earring.” His smile was soft. “They wear on one ear a down payment for apartment in Israel.”

“No justice in this world.”

“That is true. But at least they entertain.” He looked at me. “Where was I?”

“You’re tall and have sunglasses on.”

“Ah, yes.” He broke into a grin. “So I hear my name, Koby, and I turn around. It is this boy, maybe twelve—bald from chemotherapy. He has an eye patch, probably lost an eye from his disease, so maybe he doesn’t see so good. And this is when the Lakers were doing their three champions … third champion …” He made a face. “What is the noun?”

“Championship.”

“Yes, third championship, so everyone is thinking basketball.” He led me to the bank of elevators. “You want the basement.”

I punched the down button.

“So I hear my name, look at the little boy, and smile.” He chuckled. “In thirty seconds, I have twenty children wanting my autograph. My one time with fame.”

“Were the kids disappointed when they found out you were the wrong Koby?”

He let out a soft laugh. “No one say a word! Everybody on staff—doctors, nurses, orderlies, techs—they all know exactly what is going on. Plus, Oncology often get celebrities visiting the kids.” He raised his eyebrows. “This little boy … he just saw what he wanted, and the rest of the kids are also willing to believe. I sign a bad handwriting starting with a K and they were happy. Absolutely thrilled.”

The elevator dinged.

Abruptly, his expression turned pensive. “Such sick children, Cindy. So weak … knocked out. It’s all so unfair.”

The doors opened.

He shrugged himself out of it. “If I can bring a bit of joy to them, I say, why not?”

4

Koby carried the coffee as we walked to an orange plastic table sided by four blue molded chairs. Because of the late hour, the kitchen was closed, but there were still some prepackaged cold sandwiches—slices of something pink covered by wilted green stuff—for the truly famished. Drinks were also available. We sat across from one another. He had taken off his head covering, exposing a close cut of tight black curls.