Miles grasped the top of his styrofoam coffee cup with one hand and balanced a book and folded umbrella in the other. Approaching the young woman at the front desk, an unfamiliar face to him, he asked if his wife’s chemo session was completed. 

“Grace Downing. She has been here since 9AM. I just went down to get some coffee. Did they call my name while I was gone?”

The woman looked at the computer screen in front of her, then toward her colleague who offered a knowing glance back, and then toward Miles. She observed the older gentleman’s tidy appearance, round wire-rimmed glasses, and slumping shoulders, seemingly sinking from an invisible weight. 

She offered: “She is still in, Mr. Downing. Please feel free to have a seat.”

Miles nodded, backed away, and promptly dropped both the umbrella and book onto the floor. Katrina jumped up from behind the counter to assist. Holding both of the fumbled items, she offered: “It’s a nice sunny day outside, Mr. Downing. You probably won’t be needing this”, as she handed the umbrella to him.

Miles responded: “Grace hates when it’s raining. You can never be too careful.”

Katrina returned to her station and whispered into her coworker’s ear. Miles could hear the mutterings, but not the words. Katrina studied Miles’ face as she listened, nodding, frowning, and understanding.

Miles opened Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and continued reading about a father’s dreams and the memories of a history that his son did not share. 

Hours passed and the waiting room emptied. A hush settled in. At 6pm, the normal time, Katrina stood, draped a sweater over her shoulders, and grabbed a small backpack. Seeing this, Miles stood, left the empty cup on the small table as he typically did, and departed with his book and umbrella.

A story and a storm.

He would return in one week, most assuredly.