"He'll Be Right Back." (Even so.)

I sat in the emergency room Saturday -- alone and, I am glad to report, OK -- waiting for the ER physician to release me. After pacing the exam room along the very edges of patience, and having read nearly every poster, sticker or tag in sight, I settled in a chair next to the bed and hid behind the little drawn curtain. I noticed the instruction guide to the Morgan Lens device taped to a table top, and wondered how I had missed it in the forty-five minutes I had been waiting. One read-through confirmed my suspicion: in an ER, this sort of device could only suggest dreadful conditions: glass fragments, poisons. I steered clear of the possibilities.

Down low, taped to a medical cabinet, which offered at least a dozen drawers, I spotted a curious and tiny handwritten note on the front of a middle drawer:

"They are more Rapid Rhinos in the closet in Room 7."

The nurse or orderly who had written the note was forgiven the misspelling. "There are more Rapid Rhinos" would be more accurate, but the point was made. I get "they are more," at least in a pinch.

But I couldn't help but feel a bit anxious. I looked closely at the closet door; I was sitting in Room 7. Was someone up to no good here? What would I see if I opened the closet door, black rhinos rushing across the plains of Serengeti?

I quickly stood up, pulled the curtain back and leaned against the frame of the exam room door, telling myself I have enough things to worry about. Despite my best efforts to fix my mind on the whereabouts of my doctor, I discovered I could not resist hearing something move behind me in the muted distance -- the portents of adventure. The sounds of the mysterious inevitable.



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