February

Issue 41

Jim Holmgren’s lungs sounded like a bellows with a few holes in it as he circled the hospital parking lot looking for an open spot. Soon, he knew, he wouldn’t be able to make this trip without a tube in his nose and an oxygen tank strapped to his side. Soon, much too soon, he wouldn’t be able to make the trip at all.

His luck was not holding out in the big picture or the small, immediate picture—all the spaces were full. He had not yet broken down and gotten a handicap permit. That would be admitting defeat, throwing in his cards to the Grim Reaper. If he couldn’t bluff the Reaper, perhaps he could bluff himself just a little longer.

In desperation he swung his Chevy Malibu out of the lot and onto the main street. He would circle the hospital, perhaps find some on-street parking.

No such luck. He turned onto a small road just past the north end of the hospital, intending to cut back to the other side. A service road, almost a back alley really. And there, to his surprise, he saw a parking meter. Right next to a dumpster—it would be easy to overlook it and drive right by. Odd place for a meter.