From behind the tinted window of the vestibule I could make
out the figure of a middle-aged man dressed for business, sans tie.

Arms akimbo, he stared back out at me through the venetian blinds as if wanting to make eye contact.
Was he trying to tell me something?
How long had he been waiting?

The purveyor’s wheelchair slid slowly across my distorted field of vision and disappeard down the dimly lit corridor towards the suited patient just as Angelique appeared in front of me, her name written on a card attached to her wrist.