“Did you have anything planned for the next few days?”
He pushes me in a wheelchair towards the elevator. The cardiologist is in his mid fifties, has grey curly hair, wears small glasses, and he has a stereotypical doctor’s voice.
“I’m boarding a plane tonight to Sweden for the second part of my world trip.”
He stops pushing, raises his eyebrows and looks at me as if he should rather bring me straight to the mental department.
“You’re serious?” he aks. He lowers his glasses onto the tip of his nose and while ignoring my ‘as-confident-as-possible’ nod, he says: “For the next few weeks, you’re under my responsibility. This means you’re not doing anything, and you’re certainly not going anywhere…”