They Thought I Had a “Little Medical Job”—Until My Name on the Hospital Wing Came Up at Dinner

plaques gleaming. The Wellington decorated in a way that reminded guests money had always been here and always would be.

“What happens now?” Marcus asked as we reached the lobby.

I considered the question. What happened now was simple: I would return to Boston, wake at four-thirty for my early case, drive to the hospital through predawn darkness. I would continue reading …