“You have cancer.” She said it as if commenting on the weather, like he had something stuck in his teeth, like it was nothing.
He searched her face, trying to place it. She must work at Doctor Macuray’s office. “Excuse me?”
“It works, you know: chemo.” She crossed her legs, unwrapped her box-lunch sandwich, dropped crumbs for the braver pigeons. “It almost kills you, but only almost. They’re much better now than they used to be, of course.”
“Do I know you?”
She looked at him like he was crazy. “No, of course not. But I know you. I don’t do this for just anyone.”
He’d decided she was crazy, that she’d read his mail or something. He mentally catalogued her features for later description to the police. “Do what?”
“You’ll go into remission. You already have, actually. So stop worrying.” She got up and walked away.
What just happened?