““Is this okay with you?” I asked Al. “I suppose so,” he said. “Don’t have much else to do. Are we going to the prison?” “No, the hospital.” He shrugged noncommittally and settled back in his chair for a snooze. Al prefers to sleep when I drive. He says that otherwise he wears out his brake foot. His complaints are just payback for my own. I’m always bitching and moaning about how he still drives like he’s got a siren on his roof and a badge in his wallet. The county hospital outside of Dartmore... was small, what you’d expect from a rural hospital in a depressed area where by far the largest employers are the prison and a few factory farms. I couldn’t help but wonder about the quality of the medicine practiced inside. What kind of physician chooses exile to such a place? Is this really where you’d want to be treated if you were crushed under the wheels of a combine or stabbed in the back with a knife carved from a toothbrush? Not that either population has any choice in the matter.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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