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“Would you like some more coffee?” Pravin asked.
Stephen looked into his mug again, swirling the dregs of his coffee lazily. “I believe I would,” he said.
They refilled their coffee in the departmental lounge, then Pravin led them into a comfortable office with carved wooded furniture and deep-pile carpets. A high-quality electric fire burned in a grate, softly popping and crackling from time to time.
“Is this your office?” Stephen asked.
“Oh, no,” said Pravin. “This is the consult office, for those times we have to meet with a patient.” He ignored the old-fashioned desk in the corner, instead pulling out two chairs at the circular table and sitting in one. Stephen sat in the other.
They caught up on friends and acquaintances, the latest gossip; who had married, had kids, divorced; who had been injured or sick, even died. Eventually they fell to reminiscing. “Do you remember old Bart?” Pravin asked.
Stephen snorted. “Two packets of honey in his coffee, and milk. If I had a penny for every time I filled that order.”
“But he was the chief resident and so we did it, along with all of his other crazy demands.”
“All capitals for the trade names of drugs when charting, and always leave two lines at the end of a paragraph.” He sat silently for a few moments. “Yes. I see what you mean. And I see his need to know where his people are. You think I should apologize?”
“I don’t know the man from Adam, but I don’t see how it could hurt.” He looked into his mug and saw that it was empty. “Come,” he said, “I’ll buy you lunch.”
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