Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
Marcus walked in five minutes late. He looked smaller than he had at the gas station, his shoulders hunched inside his faded canvas jacket. He pulled the cuffs of the jacket down over his hands as he slid into the booth across from me.
“Thank you for coming, Marcus,” I said.
The waitress returned with a plate of hot turkey, gravy, and mashed potatoes. I had ordered it before he arrived, knowing he rarely ate a full meal.
“I am not supposed to be here,” Marcus said, his voice a low whisper. He looked toward the cash register where two truck drivers were paying their bills.
“Nobody is watching us,” I said. “Eat your lunch, Marcus. It is paid for.”
He picked up his fork and began to eat, his movements quick and tense. He did not look at me while he chewed.
“David told me you were sick,” Marcus said after a few minutes, his voice dropping. “He said you were forgetting where you parked, and that you were wandering off. He said he just wanted to make sure you were safe.”
