I hadn’t been so concerned about our future since the Breakdown twenty years ago. Back then terrorists hacked the international infrastructure and shut it down in a way that couldn’t be readily repaired, communication, transportation, power, and utilities—all down. The ensuing panic and violence left most of the major cities and manufacturing centers on the planet in smoking ruin. Some government or another, maybe ours, rather late in the game, decided the Arabian Peninsula, the Mideast, was the source of the current woe and launched a full scale nuclear attack. The Mideast is now a radioactive glass desert and much of what’s left of the world has lapsed into rural, agricultural living.
Melissa and I sat down to wait our turn. I was a nervous wreck because I thought Melissa had a broken leg. I saw her go down in the field hockey match at her school and another player landed her full weight on Missy’s lower right leg. I saw it happen; there was nothing deliberate or malicious. It was just one of those things they’re talking about when they say “stuff happens.” (Stuff isn’t the real word in the quote, but you know that.) She was limping badly and they put her in a wheelchair.
It was the epitome of waiting rooms. There were recessed fluorescent troffers in the ceiling, the room was occupied mostly by modern, squarish wooden chairs with maroon upholstered padded seats and backs. The chairs lined the four walls and, placed back to back, made a small island in the center. End tables, laden with dog-eared magazines and artificial plants, separated the chairs into small groups of four or five. Some kids’ toys were scattered in the corner. Bland instrumental music was playing softly through several hidden speakers and the air smelled of babies and antiseptic.
After some time a nurse called out Missy’s name. We went into the examination room and the nurse helped Melissa, who grimaced with a sharp inhalation, up on the examination table. Dr. Burgowitz came in, exchanged greetings and took a look at Missy’s leg. He touched it lightly with a rubber-gloved finger. She caught her breath again.
“Hmm,” said the doctor, “she might have a fracture in her fibula. That’s the thinner bone of the two in the lower leg.” He turned to the nurse, “Let’s get an X-ray.” The nurse nodded, helped Missy back into her chair and wheeled her out the door.
“Doctor, how much is this likely to cost?” I had to ask.
Dr. Burgowitz stopped writing on his tablet, thought a moment, then said, “If she doesn’t have a fracture, the office visit, the X-ray, and whatever meds I might prescribe should run about 350 New Credits.”
Now it was my turn to catch my breath. “Oh, geez, that’s a lot,” I said, “and if she has a fracture?”
“We’ll have to make sure the bone is set properly with a cast, anesthesia, pain meds, crutches—about 1200 New Credits,” Dr. Burgowitz said. He looked back at his tablet, nodded after a bit and said, “Yes, that’s about right, 1200NC.”
“I don’t have that much, doctor,” I said.
“That’s too bad,” the doctor said, “I guess I could wrap a bandage around her leg and you could let it heal naturally. She’ll probably limp for the rest of her life, though.”
“How much for that?” I asked.
“Add an extra 50 credits to what you already owe me,” Dr. Burgowitz said, looking at me over his glasses.
“50 credits for wrapping a bandage?” I was beginning to get a little angry.
“Indeed,” the doctor responded. “Let me tell you a little story. A man pulled into a service station with a loud knocking sound coming from under the car’s hood. He asked the mechanic if he could fix it. He said he could and after looking under the hood reached in and turned an adjustment screw one quarter turn. The knocking stopped and the car purred like a kitten.
“’How much do I owe you?’ the man asked. ’50 credits,’ was the reply. ’50 credits for turning a screw a quarter turn?’ the man groused. ‘Yep’ the attendant said, ’50 cents for turning the screw and 49.50 credits for knowing which screw to turn.’
“I will bandage your daughter’s leg properly,” the doctor finished.
“Couldn’t we work something out if she needs a cast, doc?”
“I’m terribly sorry, my good man, but in this day and age it’s cash only.”
It turned out Missy did have a fractured fibula and the doctor bandaged her as well as my finances would allow. I paid the 400 credits, which pretty much wiped me out and then some. That’s all I could afford. I still get angry now, years later, when I see Melissa limping.