“What’s ailing Mousy Two? he thought, and his eyes squinted into the late morning sun, striving to see more as the minister’s car drove by. Parsons didn’t like the heat, and it didn’t like him. Donning his old straw hat, he dragged it on hard, low, fixed it lower by sliding its loop of elastic beneath his beard. He hitched his socks up to meet with his knee-length shorts, then straddled his bike, all the while watching the minister’s car. It backed out slowly, turned crazily, and crept away. ‘Sa...fe to hit the road, James. To the surgery, and spare the ponies,’ he said to his aging bicycle, and he pedalled off behind the car, his bright blue eyes near closed against the glare. A small room beside his waiting room was where he tossed his hat. He never called it home. Maidenville would never be home. He was just filling in time, just swimming around and around in circles, still looking for a way out – as he had been now for the past forty-odd years. He had arrived on the Monday afternoon train with his old bicycle, a Gladstone bag, and a brand new medical degree.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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