e.r./or

A woman was walking alone. Everything was going alright until she turned pale and collapsed. It was a big and busy street, but, strange to say, she had been the only person walking. Everyone else (and there were many others), had just been standing around. When the woman fell most of them were alarmed, but, some of them weren't. A group of the alarmed people quickly ushered her to the emergency room.

An old man was seated comfortably, perhaps permanently, on a bench nearby. As the scene unfolded before him he thought that the woman, from the look of her, might be deathly ill, the poor thing.

Once inside the hospital the party was directed to a small room at the end of a long hallway to await the coming of the doctor. The sick woman was lying wearily on a table while the others stood, nearly shoulder to shoulder, timidly excusing themselves to each other for the discomfort.

This soon gave way to more bold and forward conversation. It was generally agreed that the woman was gravely ill, and, what's more, there was suspicion that the same thing could befall them at any moment, if it hadn't already. This fear made it impossible for them to look at each other. Fixing on the walls, ceiling and floor they spoke:

“This woman is sick!”

“What's wrong with her?”

“Ouch, my foot!”

“This is ridiculous!”

“Where the doctor?”

Suddenly the man who had just trampled his neighbor's foot stood on a stool by the table, apparently with the intention of taking the situation in hand. He was perspiring heavily, but, as it were, with dignity. With an impressive voice he addressed the ceiling:

"People! Quiet! We're all uncomfortable, but with her -"

he broke off but immediately recovered himself,

" - with her the situation is worse, much worse. While we wait for the doctor, and, of course, he has to be coming soon, we should do our best to get to the bottom of this. I say we owe it to ourselves to do so."

The crowd murmured.

“We owe it to ourselves?”

“What does it mean?”

“We're next.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“Where's the doctor?”

All at once the room fell silent. Steps were heard echoing in the hallway. Everyone in the room held their breath. Closer, louder. They shut their eyes, listening intently. Closer still. The steps were resounding in their temples. The man on the stool jumped down and rushed to the door, pressing his eye to the keyhole. He saw nothing. He turned away and listened. The steps paused, continued, grew faint, and disappeared.

One of the crowd, a big fat man who had once confided to a friend, “you know, I have perfect vision; when I was a child they said I had perfect vision, and I still have it,” lowered his head and began sobbing gently.

Every once in a while someone hushed the room, thinking they heard the steps again. One man said it was only mice in the walls, nothing more. Another suggested it was someone bringing flowers to their loved ones who were sick and dying, and at least it's good that no one was bringing flowers to them yet.

The woman, meanwhile, had almost completely escaped their attention. They began fussing over themselves, adjusting their clothes and clearing their throats. One man raised a probing hand to his head and felt around for a long time.

“Everything has to be right -”

“- for when he comes.”

“If it's not -”

“- then he won't.”

“Everything has to be right.”

Only one man was absent from this chorus – the single advocate of the dying woman. He was standing on the stool again imploring the crowd to help her. Suddenly an idea occurred to him, an idea which he had been dreading. With a shaking voice he asked,

“Maybe – do you think – one of us –”

he shuddered and grew pale,

“ – can one of us be the doctor?”

The crowd gasped in horror. Everyone instantly turned and stared at him with flashing eyes. Suddenly one man struck him, then another and another, until he was severely beaten. They picked him up, very alarmed at his condition, and placed him on the table next to the sick woman for when the doctor comes.