Sensing Light Read Free Page A

his sleep debt would quickly become incompatible with life.
    â€œThanks for going the extra mile to call me. You’re probably getting slammed with admissions if it’s anything like my residency at City Hospital was. I mean internship—I didn’t complete residency. Anyway, please tell Larry I’m rooting for him. I’ll definitely come to see him tomorrow.”
    â€œAbsolutely. Oh, I forgot to ask about his medical history.”
    â€œNot much there. No prior hospitalizations I know of, certainly no underlying lung disease. He was doing speed when I first met him but cleaned up his act years ago. He mostly saw me for gonorrhea and syphilis—he hustles men for a living. Though now that I think of it, something was going on before the cough and night sweats started. He used to lift weights and wear boutique clothes from North Beach. All that stopped about a year ago. He came to clinic looking disheveled, stressed out, thinner. Maybe it was drugs, but he said he was clean, and he’d never lied to me before.”
    Kevin sighed, disappointed by the lack of clues. The range of diagnostic possibilities in such a sick patient was way too wide for his comfort zone.
    â€œSo, are you a second or third year resident?” Gwen asked.
    â€œThird year. Four more months, and I’m done.”
    â€œThen what?”
    â€œI’m not sure. Maybe an ID fellowship. When were you here?”
    â€œ1969, just before they built the new hospital.”
    â€œBeen at the Haight clinic long?”
    â€œSeven years. I only work three days a week.”
    â€œThat sounds nice.”
    â€œIt is. Not much money, but I can have a life… Well, at least my daughter can have me in her life.”
    Kevin imagined a child who would yell “Daddy” and hug him when he came home—a pleasant fantasy.
    â€œHow tough is residency these days?” she asked.
    â€œCall is every fourth night, not every third like the days of the giants when you were here.”
    â€œDays of the giants?” she laughed. “When I was at City Hospital, the attendings said that same bullshit about how much harder they had it than we did.”
    â€œThe sleep deprivation is still bad. When I’m on call here, I’m lucky to get half an hour in bed. It’s better on the Hill, but they give us a ton more autonomy here.”
    â€œInteresting!”
    â€œIs it? Why?”
    â€œI’m thinking about coming back to finish residency.”
    â€œAll right! Page me when you get here tomorrow. I’ll show you around.”
    â€œThat’d be great. Thanks, Kevin.”

IV
    â€œM R . W INTON ?”
    â€œMr. Winton?”
    The short, obese young man who had woken him—or was he a teenager, Larry wondered—wore a white jacket two sizes too small. His pockets overflowed with tongue depressors, penlights, and cotton swabs. A mask covered his mouth and nose, drawing attention to the pimples dotting his forehead.
    He introduced himself as Dr. Bartholomew’s medical student and rolled up his sleeve, revealing columns of tiny words scribbled in ink on his forearm. Reading from the list, he asked Larry about a host of symptoms, ranging from nausea and diarrhea to numbness and tremor. As Larry answered, the student made notes on a sheet of paper full of strange diagrams.
    â€œMr. Winton, can you tell me today’s date, day of the week, and year?”
    â€œToday….”
    Larry searched his mind. He wasn’t sure. It must be the middle of March.
    Frustrated by the interminable questions, he said, “Saint Patty’s Day, m’boy.”
    The student stared at him.
    â€œNever caught a Texas leprechaun?” Larry asked in an Irish brogue. “Ask me where my oil well is.”
    The student checked his notes against the words on his arm. Dispirited by his failed attempt at humor, Larry closed his eyes. He thought of the mysterious diagrams on the