Memorial Days

by Geraldine Brooks

On the boat I called the number for the resident that the first doctor had given me, the doctor who had relieved her for the evening shift. This young man had no idea who I was or what I was talking about. He was clearly up to his eyeballs in other people’s emergencies. When I asked if Tony’s body would still be at the hospital when I got there, he snapped at me: “How should I know?” I don’t know why I expected better than this, but I did. First, do no harm.

It’s February, late summer, and the noontime sun is warm on my face. But it’s windy enough to blow the milk out of your tea.