“No hello?” When I got to the hospital that Thursday evening, Sophie was sitting up in the green vinyl-covered chair in the corner of her room, so I perched on the edge of her bed. “The first thing you ask about is today’s special?” “Today’s special, tomorrow’s special.” She shifted in her seat and for a moment, her face contorted into a mask of pain. Settled, she took a deep breath. “Better I should think about the Terminal than about what those doctors did to me.” I didn’t even have to ask. From this angle, I couldn’t help but see that both above and below the bandage that swathed her knee, Sophie’s right leg was swollen. There was an IV in her arm that slowly dripped what I hoped was enough painkiller to alleviate what must have been terrible discomfort. “No problems at the Terminal,” I told her without bothering to add, no customers, either. “Everything’s as right as rain.”
