He thought about his upcoming eye appointment. There was no bus service from his street, so maybe he could ask someone to drive him. He did have the option of taking a taxi. He’d figure it out when he got home. At least his ophthalmologist was in Wilna Creek. He wouldn’t have to ask for a lift to Greenley. He also had to remember to tell the doctor that only his left eye watered. He wouldn’t say a word about crying. What would be the point? He didn’t sit around crying; he hardly ever cried. But once in a while, his left eye started tearing up. Maybe he had one dry eye. He’d heard people in his shop talk about dry eyes; they carried drops with them everywhere they went. Too bad that at his age, eyes and teeth were up-and-down concerns. Half a molar could fall out of your head, and if you were lucky—as he was—you had a caring, skilled dentist who could patch you up and tell you to chew on one side until a permanent repair could take place. Most of his peers were probably chewing on one side. On the positive side, he still had his own teeth—except for small chunks that had fallen off with no ill consequences.

Tom pulled up at the entrance to the health centre, put on his flashing lights and walked Dave to one of the benches inside the main door. He left him there while he went out again to park the car in the big outdoor lot. Dave was waiting when he returned, and Tom escorted him to the elevator and up to the third floor.

“I’ll pick you up right here,” he told Dave. “Have a nurse call or text and I’ll be ready. I brought a book along, so I’ll be in the coffee shop or the cafeteria.”

“I’ll send a text,” Dave told him. “The treatment doesn’t take so much out of me that I can’t use my own phone. See you later.” And he hailed the staff in his big voice and checked himself in at the desk.

TOM WENT BACK DOWN to the main floor and sat for a while, watching people come and go. All shapes and sizes, some with deliberation and intent, some looking half or entirely lost, some tapping at phones as they walked by. A few stood around waiting; others rushed to get to the elevators. Two young women were talking and Tom overheard, “I was listening to the news in the car. Their president’s behaviour is so outrageous, he might be increached. He hasn’t been in office two years yet. My mom says the whole world is going to hell in a handbasket.”

Tom shook his head, got up and wandered along to the gift shop. He knew Hazzley would be interested in the desecration of the word. He’d tell her about “increached” when the company met next Tuesday.

He looked over the gift-shop merchandise, which was of no interest. He leafed through magazines on a rack at the back of the store and chose one about fishing, not that he fished much anymore. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out in a boat. The volunteer at the cash, a man of fifty or so, looked surly, or maybe just sad. If there hadn’t been people lined up behind him, Tom might have asked the man if he could help in some way. It was the kind of thing Ida used to do. No feigned empathy from her. Tom was convinced that on the days Ida worked alongside him at Rigmarole, customers came to the shop just so they could spill out their troubles to her. Sometimes she took them to a café down the street for a cup of tea, even if they were strangers when they’d first walked through the door. He suspected that Hazzley was like that, too. Ready to help, and with humour added in. Hazzley was a strong woman, he could see that from the beginning, from the first meeting of the company.