“Sir?” 

A woman’s voice ricochets inside his head. 

“Sir?”

He follows the line of chairs to the pamphlets, mounted on the wall, and the window beyond. A woman sits behind it, with the glass pane slid open, and points toward a young man who is taking off his headphones.

Photo courtesy of Carol Von Canon via flickr.com

Tires peel behind him and he works his neck around as far as it will go. A green car speeds across the parking lot and into the morning sun.

Sunlight.

He reaches to scratch his calf.

“Honey, you’ve got to stop itching.” 

He keeps digging into his pant leg. 

“You haven’t stopped itching all morning—“

“All morning?” 

“—you’ll just make it worse.”

“Why am I—”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.”

Here?

Chairs line the wall. A middle-aged woman coughs.

”Dr. Keller’s,” she whispers, “—for your rash.” 

“That’s right,” he say, then winks. “A genuine Sherlock Holmes—if he can’t solve my rash no one can.”  

The wrinkles around her eyes corral into a smile, but only make it half-way. He reaches across the empty chair and grabs a National Geographic. 

Dr. Keller.

The sun glistens off the magazine.

I know these mountains…

He reaches for his leg. 

“Honey!” Her voice startles him. “I just told you to stop itching.” 

“You did?”

She starts to say something, then stops and pats his magazine instead.

“Just read your magazine until we see the doctor.”

“The doctor?”

She looks away.

“Dr. Keller—” she says in a thin voice, “—now, read your magazine.”

He looks down and finds a magazine on his lap. A mountain range smiles up at him. 

Maybe I’ve been here…

Just then, someone sneezes and he looks up. Chairs line the wall. A middle-aged woman wipes her nose. He searches for an itch on his leg, but just as he finds it, something falls off his lap–a National Geographic magazine. 

He picks it up, caressing the yellow border framing a range of mountains. He can almost hear the wind blowing up the slopes and feel the sun slipping over blades of grass. He lifts the magazine into the sunlight and smiles. 

Majestic. Like you. 

Then, he leans forward to scratch his calf.