Prior to my upcoming doctor’s appointment, I needed a blood draw, which requires a twelve hour fast. Waking up that morning, I was already famished—probably psychologic, I know. From my house, the hospital is a ten to twelve minute drive, normally, and I left early enough so I could get there before the opening of the lab to get a low number. Unfortunately a slow freight train blocked the road for about ten minutes. I still managed to get to the lab a minute or so after it opened at six, and there were only five people ahead of me in the waiting room, but I noticed none of them had a number; the numbers hadn’t been put out yet. I sat down to wait, my tummy rumbling.

About ten minutes later a cute phlebotomist, who I couldn’t help noticing wore an exceedingly short uniform, came out to the waiting room and put out the numbers. By now there were eight or nine of us waiting, and I was impressed that people took numbers appropriate to their position. I was number 6, which is my lucky number, or anyway my favorite number. I sat back down, took out my Kindle, and began rereading The Ebony Tower, a novella by John Fowles, one of my favorite writers.

About ten minutes after that, the phlebotomist returned to tell us that there would be a delay, maybe an hour or two, because the receptionist hadn’t arrived and couldn’t be reached, and without the receptionist, no one could be signed in. A few people left, and the rest of us redistributed the numbers. Now I was number 4. Four is my second favorite number. For a while in my early days, it was my favorite number, but then my little brother claimed it as his favorite number, so I relinquished it. I sat down with my new number and reopened my Kindle.

About fifteen minutes later the phlebotomist came out for the third time and told us that the internet was down, so there would be a delay of at least an hour, maybe two, while IT was contacted. Without the internet, she explained, no lab work could be done, even had there been a receptionist, which there still was not. I thought about going home. We had some mushrooms which would go great with scrambled eggs. I smiled at the cute phlebotomist. “What a day!” I said to her.

“You got that right,” she said. “I’m sorry for your...”

“What if you just drew my blood?” I asked. “I could give you all my information, and you could log it in or whatever later on.”

“I don’t think we can do that,” she said. “Sorry.”

“I figured that,” I said, and handed her my number, but she wasn’t expecting it, and the four fluttered to the floor. We both bent to pick it up. Our heads banged together.