Free Race for the Dying by Steven F. Havill

things…”
    â€œBertha has it, down at the clinic,” Alvi interrupted. “I’m afraid it took a nasty bashing. She wanted to clean all the instruments and see what she could do with the rest.”
    â€œAh. I’m indebted, then. I haven’t met the young lady.”
    â€œOh, you will,” Alvi said. “So…” She stood in what Thomas had learned was a characteristic pose, hands balled into fists on her hips, elbows akimbo, ready to confront the world. “You found your luggage.” She nodded toward the armoire. One of its doors stood ajar.
    â€œI did, and thanks to whoever took care of it all. But then, apparently I fell asleep. What time is it?”
    â€œJust after noon.”
    â€œMy God.”
    â€œShall I help you up for a little while?”
    â€œI can manage,” Thomas said.
    â€œI know you can, Dr. Thomas. Here.” She pulled the wheelchair closer to the bed. “What kind of flexion are you getting with that leg now?”
    â€œNone. The progress is that I can move it a bit by hand. It’s been busy at the clinic?”
    â€œAlways,” she replied. “Always. And Father was called up the coast to one of the camps to tend a difficult birth, I think.” She smiled at the expression on Thomas’ face. “He has delivered half the population of Washington, I imagine.”
    â€œI had hoped not to spend my practice in obstetrics,” Thomas said, and realized immediately how stuffy he sounded.
    Alvi laughed. “I’d be interested to learn how that’s done.”
    With no clear idea himself, he changed the subject. “How many patients have you at the clinic?”
    She cocked her head. “We have eight beds, and at the moment one of them is occupied. At least until dinnertime.”
    â€œEight beds.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI had imagined the clinic as considerably larger than that.”
    â€œOh, it will be,” Alvi said, “but one sure step at a time. So,” and she picked up the robe that lay on the corner of the bed, “are you feeling strong enough to venture to lunch? I could smell the chowder the instant I walked into the house.”
    â€œIndeed,” Thomas said. “I was thinking of getting dressed today.” He fingered the large flannel nightshirt that Alvi had found for him, a cozy thing that encouraged sloth. Even with the rain, he thought, what a fine, invigorating outing to make his way across the rutted street to Lindeman’s Mercantile. Or somewhat less ambitious, to walk the length of the front porch. Or to dress himself.
    â€œMay I collect your clothing?”
    Thomas started to refuse, then thought better of pointless heroics. In a moment, with the clothing lying on the bed, Thomas waited until the door had closed behind Alvi Haines and then rolled onto his right side and hip, working off the baggy pajamas. Pulling on a clean pair of his own long johns was a second endurance contest, but he persisted, an inch gained here and there. He had selected a woolen shirt that he had purchased in San Francisco, and working his arms into the sleeves prompted optimism. Trousers would be impossible, but the huge robe borrowed from John Haines worked perfectly as a housecoat.
    Exhausted but quite proud of himself, he wheeled out toward the kitchen. A lanky man whose face appeared to be set in a perpetual grin nodded at Thomas, and the grin spread to bare a prodigious expanse of gums and crooked teeth.
    â€œWell, glory, look who’s up,” Gert announced.
    â€œGood day to you, sir.” The man nodded as if that settled that.
    â€œGood day,” Thomas replied. “I’m Thomas Parks.” He extended his hand.
    â€œThis is my brother, Horace,” Gert James said. Horace smiled agreement and shook Thomas’ hands with a grip that would have made a blacksmith take notice. “If it weren’t for Horace, this big old place would fall down