A House Call
The doctor climbed the stairs of the apartment complex. At the 38th floor he stopped and took a breath before ascending the final 17 levels. The door opposite the stairwell was open. He rapped perfunctorily as he entered. It became immediately apparent that the apartment spanned nearly the entire width of the building. There was a man, old and well-dressed, asleep in a chair.
“In here,” a voice called from down the hall. “Doctor, to your left.”
The old man stirred slightly and pulled the flaps of his jacket around him without opening his eyes. The walls were glass and came together to form the corner of the room. On the other side the room attenuated into a hallway. The doctor followed the voice.
“Here,” the voice said again.
The hallway was pocked with closed doors at irregular intervals. The voice came from a woman who hid inside the only open frame. “Here, doctor.”
He entered the room. The scent was oppressive. The windows hadn’t been opened. This he noted as a peculiar habit of the sick, a symptom that indicated that something, though nothing in particular, was wrong.
“Doctor, thank you for coming.”
“You really should be at the hospital,” he said and surveyed the room. “We don’t really do this anymore.”
“Moving, we thought, wasn’t a good idea. And anyway, your secretary was happy to schedule a house call.”
“Yes, she was.”
The room was only slightly smaller than the living room he had entered. From floor to ceiling, just as the same as the living room, a window stretched and gave an inspiring view of the city below. A bed, heavy with quilts, was in the center of the window, the frame nearly against the glass.
He turned from the bed. “The patient?”
“She’s there.” The woman gestured with the back of her hand as she took a step towards a table against the wall.
The mass of blankets moved slightly.
“And what’s wrong?”
“First, I should say, I hope you are well. Second, that is why we called you.” Her back was to him. Besides the patient, who was yet to be seen, they were the only people in the room.