WHAT WILL HAPPEN WILL HAPPEN

Perhaps the lazy portion of her mind that covertly subscribed to the philosophy of sabai sabai had listened to what Duanphen had said the night before. That she worked too hard. That she worked hours that were far too long.

Because Ladarat forgot to set her alarm and didn’t wake until past eight o’clock. She might not have woken even then if it weren’t for Maewfawbaahn, who wanted breakfast. Now. He could be very insistent, that cat.

So it was much later than usual when she arrived at the hospital. All of the shady spots in the parking lot had been taken an hour ago, so she had to leave the Beetle in a far corner, right next to the fence. There was no shade nearby, and even though she left the windows partly open, she knew that the insides of her little car would be like an oven by the end of the day. Ah well. This was the price she paid for being lazy.

Ladarat thought about that proper form of justice as she made her way slowly across the gravel parking lot and through the back door of the hospital. Most Thais wouldn’t have that reaction, she knew. Most Thais wouldn’t think that they deserved something bad to happen to them because they were lazy.

Waiting for the elevator to take her to the sixth floor, she wondered why she had these ideas. She thought… like an American. She had the work conscience of an American. Why would that be? One year in Chicago was hardly enough to explain it. And besides, she’d always had these feelings. She was still pondering this anomaly as she walked down the hallway and came to the ICU waiting room.

It was late in the morning, so Ladarat wasn’t surprised to find there were perhaps half a dozen family groups scattered among the chairs. The men were dressed in a mix of clean but worn work clothes, but many of the women wore traditional Lanna-style long skirts. They’d brought children and games and, of course, food, making the little waiting room look like it was hosting a small village that decided to take a trip to the big city.

But she was surprised to see the mysterious man here. Tucked into the same corner in which she’d found him yesterday, he was keeping a watchful eye on the crowded waiting room. Hunkered down on his haunches as he’d been the day before, he had the quiet patience of a man who could remain in one place forever, out of the flow of time.

She’d gone straight to the waiting room, so she didn’t have her white coat or badge. And she had her handbag over her shoulder. She looked as though she were visiting someone. At least, she hoped she did. That was her plan, if you could call it a plan.

Ladarat made her way slowly across the crowded waiting room, greeting family members and stepping around children playing on the floor, who wai’d respectfully. Careful not to step over anyone, which would have been a mark of disrespect, she was having a difficult time maintaining her balance, and her dignity.

From their dress and the respectful wais, she guessed that most, if not all, of these families were from the countryside. Up in the Northwest perhaps. Or over toward the Laos border in the north. This was perhaps the first time that some had been in a hospital. She hoped that things would end well for them, but she was afraid that, for many, they would not.

The most common cause of an ICU admission, after all, was an accident. Especially young adults who rode scooters without helmets. That didn’t usually end well. Still, the good doctors and nurses here did what they could.

Now she was in front of the window, where she looked out at Doi Suthep temple, as she’d done before. As nonchalantly as she could without being disrespectful, Ladarat turned to offer a wai to the man crouched on the floor, who returned it, watching her carefully.

She hadn’t prepared a strategy. She told herself that she wanted to be spontaneous. But the truth was that she wasn’t sure what she should say. She wasn’t at all sure that something would come to her in time.

But then, just as she began to panic, she heard herself asking the man if the person he was visiting was doing well?

“I don’t know,” the man admitted. “But I’m sure he’s getting the best care.”

Oh—this was bad. Very bad, from an ethical perspective. He was visiting a family member but could get no information? Presumably the doctors had not talked with him because he seemed simple. But that was no excuse. Even the simplest person from the country could understand the facts, if they were explained properly.

As Professor Dalrymple admonished her readers, “A failure of the patient to understand medical information is really a failure of the doctor or nurse to explain that information.”

There would be time for that later, though. Right now, it was good that she’d determined—almost by accident—that this man really was visiting someone. Is that how detectives operated? You make a guess and then discover whether you’re right? If so, she would make a very good detective, as she was always guessing. And sometimes, even, she was right.

“But why don’t you know how the patient is doing? Surely the doctors have told you something?”

In that moment, the man looked terribly, terribly sad. Of course he was sad. To visit someone with the commitment that he’d shown. Here day after day. But unable to find out how a patient was faring… well, that would be awful.

“Ah,” the man said. “But I cannot ask. I don’t have the words. I am a simple man.” He shrugged. “I will wait. I will find out.”

“But perhaps… perhaps I could ask for you?”

The man seemed to be considering that offer for a moment. His gaze left her face and skipped around the room as if he were looking for an answer along the far wall, or in the food basket a young woman was unpacking over by the window. Perhaps he found it, because a second later he turned to her and got to his feet in a flowing, graceful movement that reminded her once again of a forest animal.

“No, Khun. Please don’t trouble. I… I don’t even know the man’s name.” He offered her a deep wai, which she returned, puzzled. A second later he was hurrying across the waiting room, stepping gingerly around families without losing speed. Again she had this image in her head of a wild animal moving through the forest, sidestepping obstacles with ease that would stop humans in their tracks. It was a strange combination of grace and purpose, she thought, as he disappeared.

Much more slowly, she followed, avoiding the curious looks of the families around her. She doubted that they had overheard the conversation, but they must have been puzzled by the well-dressed city woman talking with the rough-looking man.

She wasn’t disheartened to see that the hall was empty when she reached it. Instead, she smiled to herself. She hadn’t really expected to see his retreating back.

Why not? Because she was a detective, of course.

But what now? What would a detective do?

She stood there for a moment at the waiting room entrance, thinking. A detective, she decided, would look for witnesses.

Turning back to the waiting room, she caught sight of a face that looked familiar, on the far side of the waiting room. It took her a second glimpse of his profile as he was staring down at his mobile phone. Then she recognized the man in the elevator. The man in the stairs. The man with the wife in obstetrics.

But… if his wife was in the obstetrics unit, what was he doing up here on the sixth floor? Before she could ponder that out-of-place fact, the man snapped his phone shut and looked up at her. His eyes widened in surprise and he hustled around the corner and disappeared.

Why were people running away from her? This seemed to be a strange epidemic. This running from the ethicist.

Where was she? Yes. Witnesses.

Ladarat caught the eye of the young woman who had been unpacking sticky rice and fried vegetables from a basket. Now she held a small child on her lap. She was alone, which was not good. So perhaps that meant her husband was in the ICU?

She smiled at Ladarat and seemed to want to talk. Whether she was the best witness wasn’t the issue, Ladarat reminded herself. What was important was that she might have something to offer. One never knows.

So she greeted the woman and asked if she was well.

The woman smiled. A yim soo smile, which meant “as well as can be expected.” But she didn’t seem to want to talk about her troubles, and instead asked about the man in the corner.

“Do you know him, Khun?”

Ladarat shook her head. “I met him yesterday—we spoke briefly. I know nothing about him, but he seems… sad.”

And in that moment, she thought his sadness seemed out of proportion to his trouble in getting information. Not out of proportion, really. It’s just that it was a different sort of sadness. But maybe that was just her imagination.

“Do you know him, Khun?”

The woman shook her head. “No, we’ve never spoken. But he’s been here for several days, I think. I just arrived two days ago and he was there. And he is here at the strangest hours. Often early in the morning and late at night. I heard one of the other women here saying they thought perhaps he lives in the hospital.”

“Do you think any of the other families here knows him? Have you seen him talking to anyone?”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically. “Never. He never talks to anyone. What’s even stranger,” she whispered, “is that he’s always in that corner. Always the same place. Never on a chair, but always on the floor.”

“You don’t know anything about who he might be visiting?”

“No, I don’t know.” Then she was thoughtful for a moment. “But he’s been here longer than most of us.” She gestured at the other families in the room. “So whoever he’s visiting has been here for a long time. Though I’ve never seen him go in back.” She pointed at the doors to the ICU. “All of us go back and forth and visit for at least an hour a day, but I’ve never seen him go back there.”

Ladarat thanked the woman, wishing her the best of luck with her troubles. For a moment the woman looked surprised.

“Ah,” she said. “Thank you, but what will happen will happen. It is out of our hands.”