"There isn't any report on the biopsy yet," I said. "Won't be till
Monday. Makes quite a long weekend. But I have a hunch--"
"You God-damned dour Scotchmen! Maybe it's nothing."
"Tom thinks it's something."
He looked out the window for a long time--with his shoulders folded
forward and the sun beating on his face, reflecting into it from the
cement top of the parapet and bouncing at it from the tile terrace
between. That ugly, fond mug.
"I suppose," he finally said, "when they have taken everything else and
everybody else they come around for you in person."
"I never really expected to get even this old. When I was a kid, I was
sure I'd never see thirty. As I recall, I didn't want to. Seemed a
stale age."