The nurse stared down at him. “Hold still,” she said.

“You think I can move?”

She didn’t smile as she thrust the IV into his arm. One, two, three – when would he feel the blessed opioid relief?

He knew it was in disrepute these days, but boy did he need it.

All this for a game of tennis?

If only he had taken the turmeric, Dan Gelber thought. It was supposed to have all those anti-inflammatory properties. Not that he knew it would have helped. He would have needed a clone for that, another Dan to observe the twice a day regimen recommended on the bottle, swallowing those horse-sized pills he never bothered to break in half, as he should have. He suspected it was New Age nonsense anyway. Okay ancient New Age nonsense at this point. Still, it might have been something. Something to avoid the ignominy.

An hour or two earlier – who counted in these circumstances – he was standing on court one at the Hancock Tennis Club. He was in the finals in the age seventy and over tournament, his first time in the final round of anything that he could remember. But better late than never, no?

He was only in the third game of the first set. The score was 1-1, his serve, 30-15 in his favor, not bad so far, even though the 15 was an embarrassing tanked overhead anyone should have made, especially in the finals, when he reached for a ball and it happened—instant agony, electro-shock treatment without the plug. He collapsed to the ground, a hard acrylic over concrete, a coursing pain running down his spine, into his left thigh, down the leg all the way to his big toe. There was a burning sensation he had never felt before. Well, not completely. Some of it he had experienced before—in a bout with sciatica a couple of years back. But this was different, 8.9 to 4.5 on the Richter Scale, if that was an apt comparison. And since this was Southern California, no doubt it was.

This time he was virtually immobile. He wondered for a moment if he would ever move again. Could he even have broken his back? But he had fallen directly on the left glute and then to the ground supine. A break wasn’t likely but it didn’t stop him from worrying. Breathe, breathe, he told himself, but his lungs weren’t responding. Would he ever walk again? Or was it really a coronary this time?

The other players had gathered around him. They were all solicitous—some had been through this themselves—although Dan Gelber had no right to ask such gracious behavior of them given his own habits of mind. Like many his age, or so he assumed, he had watched with mixed emotions as his contemporaries had succumbed to various physical maladies, distended knees, elbow issues, shoulder dislocations, persistent nerve pain that overwhelmed their lives. Usually he was sympathetic, or tried to be, but on other occasions he found himself engaging in a disturbing schadenfreude. There but for the grace of God, he would think, as others hobbled off the tennis court, forever beaten, never to return, one less opponent to deal with in the great game of life of which tennis was only one minor component, yet significant as a symbol of survival of the ever-degenerating fittest. He didn’t like himself for those thoughts, even, on occasion, was disgusted by them, but there they were. Worse, on other occasions and hating himself for it, he had felt relieved when his contemporaries had actually expired. Somehow his number had not been called. Might his luck continue.

But now, as the event, or insult, as it was called medically, was happening to him, it was difficult to follow what the other players were saying or even to focus on their faces, let alone thinking. One of them was Ben, his partner with whom he had lost in several tournaments before, but this was to be their big chance after they had won the semis with surprising ease. He couldn’t for the moment remember the names of the other guys, his opponents. Oh, yes, Herbert and Manfred. Manfred was from Brazil but had a German name. Good forehand but erratic. An over hitter, he and Ben had agreed. They would favor him, not that it mattered now.

Behind Manfred, some people, club members watching the final, had stood up from the viewing stand and were approaching, a couple talking animatedly into cellphones. Someone reached over to take his pulse.

And then he passed out.

The next thing he knew he was in one of those fire department ambulances, the shiny red ones in that deliberately retro boxy style that seemed designed to carry you over to the other side—the River Styx Special. He had been in one before when he thought he had a heart attack, but it turned out to have been indigestion. He realized the mistake that time halfway to the hospital and tried to get them to turn back, but the medics wouldn’t allow it. Against regulations. They made sure he took his aspirin and continued on. So he spent the night in a now defunct hospital in Century City, receiving a bill on checkout that would have paid for a week at the Georges V with a first class flight to Paris, maybe even a private jet, thrown in. His insurance paid a tenth of it and the rest got mysteriously erased.

On this occasion indeed it was different. When he woke up several hours later, it was dark out. Another nurse was staring at him.

“The orthopedist will see you soon.”

Soon evidently meant fifteen hours. The orthopedist arrived just before lunch the next day. His name was Dr. Chung and he seemed to be Korean, but did not speak with an accent. Behind him, an elderly cleaning lady who looked Indian or Pakistani was swabbing the floor with a mop.

Amanda was already there. She had come in around ten a.m. with a croissant and a grande-sized almond latte. She knew Dan liked almond milk because they had spent one night together at a hotel in Newport Beach and ordered room service breakfast. But that was a couple of months ago and the relationship had gone nowhere. Dan didn’t like admitting it to himself, but when she had taken her clothes off for the first time that weekend, revealing her sixty something skin, well-tended as it was, all Dan could think of was how old he must have looked. Still, it was nice of her to come to the hospital, if a tad embarrassing. His actual family was not in evidence, not that there were many of them. He had been divorced for twenty-three years and his only son lived across the country with his wife and two children. It had seemed pointless to call him and it had never been Dan Gelber’s natural way to reach out. He wasn’t passive-aggressive exactly so much as self-involved. Amanda’s manner appeared to be the opposite. She was the kind of woman who was born bearing responsibility for anyone with the slightest discomfort—and Gelber’s was, at this particular moment, more extreme than he could remember it ever having been.

She spread some preserve on the croissant and handed it to him.

“It’s blueberry. They were out of the blackberry,” she said, again knowing his favorite.

“Are you the spouse?” the doctor asked her.

“Just a friend.”

The doctor nodded and bent over to examine Dan, palpating his gluteus and lower back. There was a sharp pain and Dan winced. “How’d this happen?”

“Tennis. Stooping for a ball. Didn’t bend at the knees, I guess.”

“Not sure that would’ve helped. Your MRI shows a severely herniated disc between the fourth and fifth.”

“It’s been that way for a while. I had a year of PT because of it.”

“I’ve already seen your history. Sorry to say but you’ll probably need an operation at this point. You look like a candidate for a laminectomy. No one wants one, but sometimes we have to face reality. That will give you a chance for an active life. You’re lucky to have been walking around, let alone playing tennis.”

“So I guess I should have taken the turmeric.”

“Turmeric?” The young doctor chuckled. “You like Indian food?”

The cleaning lady stopped and looked up.

“Not my favorite. But it’s supposed to be a good anti-inflammatory, isn’t it?”

“It’s the curcumin,” Amanda chimed in. “You’re supposed to take it with a bit of pepper.” One of those women who did yoga three times a week and a liquid cleanse every month, she kept up on those things.

The doctor smiled politely. “It won’t hurt you but there’s absolutely no evidence turmeric… or the curcumin contained in it… does any of the things they claim it does.” He started to input some information in an iPad. “Anyway, buck up. A condition like yours responds well to surgery. Sometimes even an incision of less than an inch or two will do it and you’re up again in no time. Though I’m not sure tennis will be on the calendar, at least for the time being. Hard courts are murder on the spine. You’ll find other ways to exercise. Do you swim?”

“I’m not even sure I can walk.”

“You’ll walk just fine. You already can. I see you’ve been to the bathroom twice. Sorry we can’t let you stay another night. The nurse will give you some Vicodin.” He put his card on the end table. “Call my office tomorrow and we’ll schedule an appointment for the operation.”

“It’ll be something to write about,” Amanda added helpfully.

“You’re a writer?” the doctor asked. “Anything I should know about?”

“A few books. Some movies. Too long ago for you to have seen them.”

“Maybe I watched them on Netflix. My wife loves eighties flicks. ‘The Breakfast Club’ … ‘Sixteen Candles.’ You didn’t write those, did you?”

Dan shook his head.

“Well, you can tell me when you come in. See you soon I hope. We’ll get you fixed up.”

The doctor smiled again and headed for the door.

The old Indian woman started to hiss as it closed behind him, as if sending out a curse.

“Don’t do operation,” she said, turning toward Dan. “Operation terrible. Only get worse. Man here came in with broken toe, had operation, never walked again. Later he die of gangrene. In hospital. Age fifty-two. Left two daughters twelve and fourteen.” She resumed mopping, then stopped again, staring back at Dan once more. She seemed to be evaluating him as if to see if he were fit for saving. “Go see Uncle Nawang,” she said.

“Who?”

“Nawang Gombo. My cousin. In Reseda. He fix everything – knee, shoulder, hair loss, bad skin, prostate problem, even back. Very good with back. You start dancing soon.” She did a little jig by way of illustration.

“Maybe you should,” said Amanda. “Operations should always be a last resort.” She turned toward the old woman.

“Where in Reseda?”

“23393 Erwin Street. In mini mall, next to nail salon.”

“Uncle Nawang in a mini mall?” Dan said. “Why not?” He figured he would die first.