"It's a diffusive injury to the brain".
"Doctor, could you be more specific?"
"Look, in plain words, your brother has had a minor concussion. There's a blood clot. We've to take a CT scan and then decide whether or not to operate on him".
"Is it..is it serious?"
The blood oozes out of his left ear. We've run out of cotton. The nurse hands out another wad, with a casual wave of her hand.
The smell of antiseptic, mixed with the iron smell of deep dark blood can send waves of nausea through even the most stoic of digestive systems.
We wait. 2, 3, 4... hours.
The effect of the pain-killer's beginning to wear off. The groans have begun.
Outside, an ambulance screeches to a halt and then, like a scene straight out of ER, paramedics wheel in another accident victim.
Time stands still in a casualty ward. Because everybody hopes that in that momentarily suspended strand of time, we might see recovery. Some recover. For some, time remains still. Just like the victims.
All that mind thinks at this time: thus far, and no more.
For the mechanics of the human workshop, shop opens mostly at night.