The Crimson Orchard waiting room has an array of things to keep people of all ages entertained. There is one of those colorful wire bead mazes for kids you often find in the waiting areas of banks; there’s a Noddy magazine, a Teen Vogue from a couple of years ago, a bridal magazine, a gossip magazine, a magazine about tractors, an interior design magazine and one about motherhood, and a TV program schedule. All stages of life are on the coffee table, represented in magazines, and fanned out. The only part of life not represented, I suppose, is the final stage, which is, in essence, on the other side of the door, in the other rooms of this building. I sit in front of the bead maze and thread the yellow bead along its wire. It’s fairly soothing. I do red next, then blue, then green. I balance all the beads in the middle of their wires rather than taking them to their ends. Then I take them all back to their beginnings and repeat the whole process again.

I arrived nearly three-quarters of an hour early. Dr. Kerr said he’d meet me at ten-thirty. It’s currently just before ten. The fast trains from London St. Pancras to Margate only come every hour so arriving at a specific time is tricky, and the only other trains are the slow trains that leave from Victoria and stop at all the little villages and towns in Kent. I didn’t think it would matter, though. My weather app had said it would be overcast with scattered showers, but it’s a ridiculously bright, clear day. My plan to wait in the countryside here, and take a walk around the fields, and try to find the part of the land that will, eventually, fill with sea and divide the extreme southeast of this area from the mainland, was scuppered.

I sit back in my chair. The ceiling is covered in polystyrene tiles. I start counting the dots on the one directly above my head. One, two, three, four . . . twenty-six, twenty-seven . . . I pick at the skin next to one of my fingernails. I’ve picked it a bit too much. It hurts and one side of my finger is bright pink and a bit swollen. I’m quite bored, waiting. Although, it’s also nice to be out of London for a morning. I look down at the carpet. In between the fibers, there are quite a few crumbs. I wonder how often this place is cleaned.

“I . . . see . . . you. I see you there, I see you there.” I realize that the door is ajar and there is someone peeping through the gap. I sit up, quickly. “I see you,” the person says, in a raspy voice. It’s a man. “You, yes, you. I see you looking at me.” He sounds angry.