The Prophet

   

    "We're going to admit you, Mr. Mcdonald," said the lady doctor, and beamed at me as if she'd just told me I'd won the pools.
   
    "Again?"
   
    "Indeed, Mr. Mcdonald. For the second time this year, I see. "
   
    "Can't you just give me some antibiotics, and send me home?"
   
    "Oh, but I couldn't do that; we don't see a urinary tract infection of this severity every day of the week, you know," she answered happily. "But it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. If it's any comfort, you'll be quite the celebrity around here, with all the finest specialists beating a path to your bed. Why, you might even get a mention in this little paper I'm writing…not by name, of course…" she added, when she saw my expression. "Dear me, no."

    "You could even sell tickets while you're about it," I said.
                                                                     
                                              *
    It didn’t take me long to discover that stardom is not all it’s cracked up to be.  Despite the innumerable doctor's visits, and being carted off every five minutes for yet another test, despite, even, the silly urological humour of cheerful young nurses determined you should see the funny side of the situation, time hangs heavy on your hands.

    Sure, I had plenty of books to read, but reading's no fun when you've nothing to do but read. Most of the patients passed their time sleeping or chatting to their neighbours, but I was in too much pain to sleep very much, and I had no-one to talk to as the bed next to me always had the curtains drawn, and I never even got to see who was there. 
   
    This left the elderly man in the bed opposite mine. On my first day I nodded and smiled at him a couple of times, hoping for a companion in my misery, but he ignored me. When I said good morning and asked after his health, looking for an excuse to complain about my own, he stared straight ahead and answered not a word, yet I knew he could hear because he spent most of the day listening to a transistor radio tucked into his pajama pocket.
   
    It wasn't just me he refused to speak to. Those of us who could get up had our meals in the little dining room next to the ward, and so did he. The place was so cramped you had to sit at the table with somebody, and the ice soon thawed when you found yourself eating with the same people every day. Not with him, though. The only time he opened his mouth was to point at the salt. Apart from that, he acted as if none of us were there.
   
    Being a naturally talkative person, I persisted for a while in my efforts to draw the old boy out. At least it was something to do. I began to have little bets with myself as to how long it would take to get him to speak. For three whole days I asked how he was doing every time I shuffled painfully past his bed. I moaned to him about the food at meal times, and never failed to say good night when the nurses turned out the lights.
  I might just as well have tried talking to a brick. By the fourth day I gave him up as a bad job, and discovered the more rewarding occupations of counting the cracks in the ceiling.
                                                                 
                                            *
    But all good things come to an end. In less than a week my purgatory was over, and I was declared fit and well and ready to go home.  Feeling twenty years younger, I joyfully took my leave of the unfortunates remaining behind, then shouldered my bag and strode vigorously towards the door. As I reached it I glanced over at the old man from across the aisle. To my surprise, he was sitting up and beckoning to me. I could have sworn there was a glint in the corner of his rheumy eye.
   
    I went and stood before him, rather touched that he should wish to bid me farewell. He observed me in silence for a moment, nodding his head and chewing his thin, wrinkled lips, as if savouring the words he was about to pronounce. And then he spoke.
   
    "You'll be back," he said.