He looks down at a paper. “Parr... nava...?” He broods, and gives Parvaneh a distracted look.
“Parvaneh,” she corrects. The doctor doesn’t look particularly concerned.
“You’re listed here as the ‘next of kin,’” he says, glancing briefly at this emphatically Iranian thirty-year-old woman on the chair,
and this emphatically un-Iranian Swede in the bed.
When neither of them makes the slightest effort to explain how this can be,
other than Parvaneh giving Ove a little shove and sniggering, “Aaah, next of kin!”
and Ove responding, “Shut it, will you!” the doctor sighs and continues.
“Ove has a heart problem...” he begins in an anodyne voice,
following this up with a series of terms that no human being with less than ten years of medical training
or an entirely unhealthy addiction to certain television series could ever be expected to understand.
When Parvaneh gives him a look studded with a long line of question marks and exclamation marks,
the doctor sighs again in that way young doctors with glasses and plastic slippers and a stick up their ass often do
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