Harold St. Clair waited in the small, sterile room, paper gown rustling as he shifted awkwardly on the naugahyde examination table, its sheet of butcher’s paper crinkling under his white and wrinkled rear. He hadn’t been feeling himself, lately. A pang here, a twinge there, a general feeling of malaise, which oddly hadn’t dissipated after a few swallows of cartilage and herbal pills, nor been gently cleansed away by sweet aloe and ginger teas. Much as he loathed doctors and the unnatural, cruel science they represented, he’d given in when a momentary spell of blindness had overwhelmed him as he walked.
The door swung open with a soft shushing sound, and the doctor, grave in his white coat, stepped in. Wordlessly, the medical man flipped through his chart, pages crackling and hissing ominously as he turned them quickly, and a light umph as he abruptly slammed closed the plastic binder that held it.