I’m walking to the post-op ward on the way to see Da yesterday, riding a high on the news that the goop they scooped out of his gut wasn’t cancerous and the operation went smoothly. In a secluded corridor I pass a 60s something squat, sweaty man carrying 4 plastic bags. He puts them down and loudly asks me to help him locate a room, the number of which is scrawled across a scrap of paper. It’s one of those room numbers created by a desk jockey astro-navigator: “9N20020”

I pause and say “I think-“.

Before I can say anything else, three orderlies come around the corner and the gentleman cuts me off by saying “These boys look like they’re intelligent!” and enlists their help, wordlessly dismissing me.

I’m… not intelligent looking?