I was leaning forward, my hands cupped over my eyes. “Thank you.” After a minute I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Leszek.”

“Lasik?”

He laughed. “Leszek. It is Polish. What is your name?”

“Alan.”

“Alan,” he said. “It is nice to meet you, Alan.”

The ride seemed agonizingly longer than fifteen minutes, as everything in my world was still spinning. Mercifully, the man didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t say anything at all until he pulled up to the emergency room entrance. “We are here,” he said. “I will help you go inside.” He shut off his car and climbed out, then opened my door. He held my arm as I walked with him. When we were inside the building I said, “I forgot my pack.”

“It will be safe in my car,” he said.

I couldn’t believe I was back in a hospital. The smell of the waiting room made me feel more nauseous, and as we approached the registration desk I bent over and threw up on the carpet. Around me, voices seemed disembodied, tinny as a car radio. A woman asked, “What’s going on?”

“I do not know,” Leszek said. “I found him along the road. He is very dizzy.”

“Have him sit down,” another female voice said.

A nurse helped me sit back into a wheelchair.

“We need some admittance information,” the woman said to Leszek. “I’ll need to have you fill out this form.”

“I cannot help you. I do not know this man. I just stopped to help. His name is Alan.”

“You’re Alan?” she asked.

“Yes. My wallet is in my pack.”

“We need your insurance information.”

“I don’t have insurance,” I said.

I didn’t see her expression, but there was a pause.

“You cannot turn him down,” Leszek said.

“I didn’t say I don’t have money,” I said. “I’m not a bum. I just don’t have insurance. There’s a credit card in my wallet.”

“I will get your pack,” Leszek said.

I was wheeled back to an examination room. The room’s bright lights hurt my eyes.

A nurse with red hair and freckles entered the room about the same time I did. “I just need to check your vitals,” she said. She put a small plastic clip on one of my fingers and left it there while she ran an electric thermometer over my forehead and typed in the results on a computer. Then she fastened a blood pressure cuff on my arm and pushed a button. The cuff filled with air, tightening around my bicep. She read the gauge, typed in the results, and took off the cuff.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked.

“Your blood pressure is 117 over 78, which is good. Your temperature is normal. I’ll need to take some blood.”