Directly ahead of the short flight of steps was the community center, which with its imposing gate resembled a shrine. Fluorescent lights lit up the interior, reflecting a shadow of someone looking down at them.

“But you do still have some rice left, right?” Fusae asked.

As she stepped up the last stone step Mrs. Okazaki said, in a forlorn voice, “I should be okay for another four or five days.”

“I’ll have Yuichi pick up some tomorrow.”

Just as she spoke, a voice came from the community center. “Is that Mrs. Okazaki?” it called. It came from the shadow, who was, in fact, the instructor of the seminar, a plump medical doctor named Tsutsumishita. As he spoke, he hurried down to them.

“Did you try the herbal medicine from last time?” he asked.

Mrs. Okazaki strained to stand up straight and smiled happily.

Dr. Tsutsumishita guided them into the community center and they found many of their neighbors already there, seated on cushions spread out at random on the floor and chatting with each other.

Fusae went to get cushions for herself and Mrs. Okazaki, then sat down next to the head of the women’s association, Mrs. Sanae, and eavesdropped as she chatted with Mrs. Okazaki about how well the herbal medicine had worked, how their legs weren’t so cold when they went to bed.

Dr. Tsutsumishita brought over a paper cup with hot tea. “That’s so kind of you,” Fusae said gratefully. “I shouldn’t be having a man wait on me.” She took the cup from the tray.

“Grannie, I wasn’t lying about that herbal medicine, now was I? Didn’t you still feel hot even after you came out of the bath?” Dr. Tsutsumishita patted Mrs. Okazaki’s shoulder and sat down beside her.

“It’s true, I did feel warm. Though when I first got it I thought it had to be a joke.” Mrs. Okazaki spoke in a loud voice, and around the hall other people laughed, agreeing with her.

“Well, I’m not about to come all this way on my short little legs just to pull a fast one on you.” Still seated, Dr. Tsutsumishita wiggled his short legs, evoking a burst of laughter.

For the last month Dr. Tsutsumishita had been lecturing on how to maintain good health after age sixty. Fusae at first had gone unwillingly, but she gradually found this doctor-who used his own shortcomings as grist for his talks-an enjoyable speaker, and since the afternoon had been counting the minutes to this evening’s seminar.

“Well, let’s get started.” Dr. Tsutsumishita stood up and addressed the group of old people scattered around the hall. One old man in the group had a red face, and must have been imbibing some shochu before he came.

“Today’s topic is blood circulation.” Dr. Tsutsumishita’s voice carried well throughout the hall. As he stepped up to the podium, the audience smiled in anticipation, as if they were about to hear a performance of comic rakugo.

Right beside the podium was a colorful Big Catch flag that nowadays was used only during the dragon-boat races.

At night the atmosphere in the hospital changed. There was a heaviness, a sadness in the air, a total absence of anything cheerful or happy.

That evening, Miho Kaneko sat down on a bench in the waiting room and started flipping through a magazine she’d brought from the hospital recreation area.

It was not yet eight p.m., but the light in the outpatient reception desk was off and the worn-out benches in the waiting area were illuminated only by the remaining fluorescent lights overhead. The waiting area was so small it was hard to believe that during the day over a hundred people crowded in, waiting their turn.

With everyone gone now the only things left in the waiting area were the benches and the color-coded arrows painted on the walls indicating the different wings of the hospital. The pink arrow for the ob-gyn wing, yellow for pediatrics, light blue for neurology. Under the fluorescent lights, the arrows looked colorful and out of place.

A patient would occasionally hurry down the hall to go outside to smoke. At nine the front door was locked and they couldn’t go outside to the designated smoking area. So out they went for the final smoke of the day-patients pushing IV poles, some holding colostomy bags in one hand, some leaning on canes, others in wheelchairs. One man past middle age, and a young man, probably from the same ward, were discussing baseball as they made their way outside. A woman in a wheelchair was talking to her husband on a cell phone. Each of them, each with his own illness or injury, headed out into the cold for the final smoke of the day.

When she turned to look farther down the hall, Miho saw, as she had on other nights, an old woman with dyed red hair, seated in front of the large TV that was left on during the day. A baby carriage was in front of her. She was just sitting there, doing nothing, though occasionally she’d rouse herself to rock the baby carriage and speak gently to the baby boy inside. “Hmm? What is it?” she asked him. Inside the baby carriage was a boy with polio. He was a little too big for the frilly carriage, and his twisted hand stuck out of it.

The old woman came here every night at this time. She sat here, speaking to this boy who couldn’t respond, stroking his painful, twisted body.

Miho figured the ward that housed the boy must be filled with young mothers. She didn’t know the story, but she decided that the red-haired old woman must feel uncomfortable among them, so she brought the boy out here to the hall every night.

Miho sat there, turning the pages of the magazine and half listening to the voices of the patients going out for a smoke, and the voice of the old woman soothing the boy.

It was a glossy women’s magazine, and she was slowly reading through each page of a report on the marriage of an actress and a Kabuki actor. She’d read about a third of the article when the nurse in charge of her case rushed out from the elevator and approached her. “Ah, Miss Kaneko,” she said, and Miho nodded a greeting.

As she approached, the nurse noted her magazine and said, grimacing, “It’s hard to read a magazine on the ward, isn’t it.”

“No, not really. It’s just that spending the whole day on the ward gets a little depressing…”

“Did Dr. Moroi talk to you this morning?”

“He did. He said that if the test results are good, I can be released on Thursday.”

“That’s wonderful. You look so much better than when you were first admitted.”

Two weeks ago Miho had a fever that lasted three days. She’d just opened her own little diner and couldn’t very well take time off, even though she knew she was pushing herself too hard. Soon afterward she’d suddenly collapsed, and fortunately a regular customer was at her place and called for an ambulance.

The diagnosis was overwork. She was also on the verge of getting pneumonia, the doctor told her. Her diner was small, but still she’d overdone it. She’d finally been able to open her own place, something she’d always wanted to do, and now had to close it just two months later. Miho couldn’t believe her luck.

The nurse stood up and went over to the red-haired old woman.

“You’re lucky, Mamoru, that your grandmother’s always with you.” The nurse’s gentle voice as she spoke to the boy in the baby carriage echoed in the still waiting area. As if replying to her, the motor of the vending machine kicked in with a groan.

Miho closed her magazine and stood up to return to her ward. Just then the automatic front door slid open, the cold air rushing in, and she casually glanced over, expecting it to be some patients coming in after their final cigarette. Instead, it was a tall young man with dyed blond hair supporting an old man who was walking gingerly inside. The faded pink warm-up clothes the young man wore went well, oddly enough, with his blond hair. He was staring at his feet as he walked. He had his arm under the old man’s armpit, supporting him, and it was clear the old man was leaning on him heavily.