Doctor Doctor

My father is in the hospital for unknown reasons. Correction: the reason is that he is sick. The cause is what is unknown. They think it’s an infection. Or something else. But most likely an infection. He has a Dr. Bolt – or is it Brazen? Or Blank. No, it’s Bond. Something with a “b.” The Unnamed is an infectious disease specialist who wanders the halls late at night, stopping by occasionally to ask increasingly obscure questions which seem unconnected to each other. “Have you traveled at all recently? Have you had colitis? Do your heels hurt?” His hair is pure white and his jacket doesn’t so much hang awkwardly as not fit at all. When asked for directions, he tells a group of dawdling interns a story about losing his pager in wet cement. He looks like an albino Christopher Walken and talks like a cross between House and Milton Berle, saying things like, “Sometimes you have to wait the body out and see what it does,” and, “When you hit the wall, give us a call.”