Old Yeats and his men went into the doctor's office next to Doctor Hughes's. The sign on Doctor Hughes's door read "Internal Medicine (II)," making the one they entered "Internal Medicine (I)."
Inside the office, a doctor was meticulously examining a patient. The man was emaciated, with thinning hair and sunken eyes. His large frame was just skin and bones, making him look like a living skeleton.
It was clear that before he fell ill, he must have been a tall, robust man. Now, he was so weak he couldn't even lift a hand.
The doctor's brow furrowed deeper. Though he had prepared himself, Old Yeats's heart sank. "Doctor," he asked politely, "can he be cured?"
"He should be admitted."
The doctor sighed. 'In truth, hospitalization won't cure him, but it can ease his suffering and let him live his last few days in comfort.'
"I... I'm not staying... G-go... home..."
