I pushed the door to the cupboard shut.

In the cubicle opposite ours I caught a glimpse of the old man from the line. He was lying down with his face to the wall.

I started making up the beds. The mattresses were thin and wrapped in sticky plastic that smelled of disinfectant. One sheet underneath, one on top. No pillow. Lou could continue using her sweater for a pillow. She had done that during the days we were on the road. She liked rolling something up to put under her head when she slept.

At that moment the man in bed moaned. I could hear him writhing in pain. The bed emitted a metallic squeak. And he wailed—a soft whine of suffering.

I went out into the hallway between the cubicles. The man didn’t notice me. Again he writhed in pain and turned his bandaged hand over.

I ventured into his cubicle. He didn’t react as I drew close to him. The bandage was brown with filth and on one side of it there were yellow stains where pus had oozed out. He smelled bad, rancid and a little rotten. All of him, or perhaps just from the hand. He moaned again and opened his eyes, stared straight at me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He sat up. His movements were stiff, his eyes glassy with pain.

“Do you have any . . .” he asked, holding up his hand. “Something or other. Just so I can get some sleep?”

I shook my head and pointed to the bandage. “How long has it been since you had that changed?”

At first he didn’t reply. He looked down at the filthy dressing.

“My daughter dressed it.”

“Your daughter?”

“She’s a nurse.”

“But was that long ago?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It has to be changed.”

Fortunately the man didn’t object and let himself be led. I held Lou by one hand, with the other I guided the man gently forward.

I asked where he came from. What his name was.

“Francis,” he mumbled in reply. He’d made his way here from Perpignan.

That made me happy.

“We’re almost neighbors,” I said. “We’re from Argelès.”

He didn’t reply to that, perhaps didn’t think it was very close and he would be right about that.

We reached the first-aid barracks. No line here. We were admitted immediately and welcome by a nurse in a bleached white uniform. She smelled of soap. The room was cool, the air dry. A box on the wall emitted a low humming sound; there was air-conditioning in here as well.

Francis sank down into the chair she pulled out for him and placed his hand on her lap. We stood right behind him. The nurse carefully loosened the bandage and he whimpered. There were tears in his eyes and his face twisted.

As the bandage was slowly unwound, the odor intensified, the stench.

“Go sit over there,” I said to Lou.

For my own part, I couldn’t refrain from watching. The wound was deep and festering, more yellow than red, a long gash in his flesh. The color of the skin around it was a sickly color, grayish.