A matter of the heart.

sharply against the white tile. The space ahead opened into a crosswalk bridging the hospital towers over the street below. Light streamed in through the large glass panels, painting the ground yellow. White coats littered the corridor, and I glanced beyond them at the cars passing underneath. They felt distant and small. Inside the room, Mr. Lucas sat on the bed folding his brother’s clothes. Several suitcases lay open in the corner. Behind him, the curtains glowed red, pulled tight to keep out the fading sun. Pink balloons floated limply above the bed. A bouquet lay on the desk to his right. Mr. Lucas wasn’t my patient, but I knew him well. When his older brother had first come to the clinic with progressive chest pain, Mr. Lucas accompanied him and brought his papers in a large folder. When he’d returned for preop screening, Mr. Lucas took notes and double-checked his brother’s medications. On the day of the operation, it was Mr. Lucas who camped out in the waiting room with blankets and a pile of books, ready for the surgeon’s periodic updates. It was Mr. Lucas who had told me about my patient’s plans for the future. It was Mr. Lucas who was there in the days following the procedure, hunched over the bed until the end of visitation hours,