When the call came, my brother was at work in the open office in Cambridge, Mass., he shares with seven colleagues who, like him, help run clinical trials for a drug developer. The phone number came up blocked, so he knew it must be the doctor. He stood up, unsteady on his feet. Was he a little nauseous? Or was that just adrenaline? He ducked into the hallway in search of quiet.
My brother Evan, 35, is a stocky guy of medium height with a trimmed, fuzzy blond beard and two gem studs in each earlobe. He usually wears a Red Sox hat, and when he’s nervous, he’ll remove it and obsessively bend the rim. But on that September afternoon, both of his hands were clutching his phone, the right one cupping the left for privacy. “Hello?”
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Well Sir, you succeeded and right after Church no less. Couldn't get through the second paragraph.
ReplyDeleteIt's all good Mr. Townsend. I just hate what my Grandkids will face, I don't feel it's fair to them.
DeleteI don't feel it's fair to them.
Delete100%
Projectile Vomit on deck! HURLED!
ReplyDelete