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“No,” I snapped. “I don’t want to play cards.”
“Just one game of gin rummy,” Ron* coaxed.
I shook my head. I wanted nothing to do with Ron or his wife or his daughter or anyone else in the room besides, of course, my son. He, my son, had been in that six-bed hospital ward already for nine days, not counting Shabbat out for good behavior. It had been nine days since the blood test had shown his infection rate was sky high, more than nine days that he‘d complained about being in pain whenever he walked. Nine days of him only leaving his hospital bed in a wheelchair. Nine days of doctors shaking their heads and suggesting more and more tests.