The oncologist’s office.

I look around the room.

Eight men, including me. Four white, four black. They all look as old to me as I look to them.

Not that anyone looks at each other.

One man makes a cell call. He has a Caribbean accent.

Two are filling out the forms I filled out last week. One is reading a magazine.

One has his hands on his crotch where mine most likely would be were my laptop not on it. Three stare vacantly into space thinking of God knows what.

I’d be doing that, too, staring into space, with my hands on my crotch, if I weren’t typing this, thinking of God knows what.

“Mr. Bessman!”

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