In my dreams, Mr Smith always looks the same. He sits at a table with a green-and-white checkered tablecloth, a pale blue hospital gown around his skeletal frame, shadows gathered behind his collarbones. His forearms are a mess of bruises—purple, blue, and a fading yellow-green—though he gestures with them wildly and easily. His amber eyes match the color of the root beer in the glass before him. Arthritic fingers close around the glass, leaving their imprints on its frosted surface. He lifts the glass to chapped lips, taking a big sip.
Puri S. Extraordinary. JAMA. 2014;312(8):793–794. doi:10.1001/jama.2014.6776
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