The good doctor is asleep in a chair beside the bed of a child, safe and warm and most certainly not lying sick and dying in a gutter or in some sort of life threatening danger. I grumble to myself, wishing I had never left the relative safety of my rooms and wondering what sort of delusion I must have been under in order to believe that striking out alone on this miserable evening was a rational decision?
I turn for home and begin a bout of coughing, all the while searching for the answer to my own befuddling question.