The Island

The washroom door swung open. Felipe stepped through the entrance, dropped a pile of dry clothes on the floor, and then looked at my nakedness. I had nothing cover myself with. He stared for a few seconds, looking openly at the roadmap of my career, scars so intricately detailed as to resemble an AAA road map. His eyes met mine for the briefest instant before he was gone. The door gently clicked behind him. I sorted through the pile. A full set of green scrubs lay on the floor, booties, hat and all. A heavy ski jacket in dark black, with the name Dr. Murphy, off to one side. I dressed, held the Wellingtons up to the electric hand dryer for a bit, and then put them on. I wrapped the wrinkled wet clothes in my old coat and headed for the door, but it opened before I got there. Don strode in.

“Doctor’s stuff,” he pointed his big chin at the pile unnecessarily.