ON THE morning that I am no longer going to be a doctor, I stop on my way out of the hospital to leave my stethoscope with the young man selling white snowdrops at the gift boutique. Arriving for my morning shift I would always smile at him. He'd smile back, complicit, as if shrugging off the weariness we both felt at the early hour.
He says yes, he can mind it, no problem. He doesn't question. I thank him. I will not be returning for it, but I don't tell him this.
I exit through the sliding glass doors and across the bright spring day to the waiting tram.
Inside, everything normal looks strange. Where do I sit? The yellow hold-rails loom up like the bones of a giant tram-stegosaur. The blue upholstery swirls beyond the seat edges. The ticket scanner beeps at me, frowning a red blinking cross. As the tram lurches I stumble to a seat in the wheelchair zone. I
