The journey has ended. We are waiting for the restaurant to open so that we can eat. Everyone is tired. All of us finished. I am homesick and it will soon be time to go home. I dread the thought of the travel, but I long for my own little bed and my own routines and the people who love me. They lose my luggage on the way home, including my bike. This may be a blessing as it is delivered to my door the next day so I never had to try to carry it all. My bike case had been opened, but it appears to be fine other than being impossibly light without the heavy carradice.
When I return to work, I find they have tracked me. There are banners across my doors and windows: Congratulations. But I am only there a short time before the phone call comes and I am out the door to the hospital. The light is that this didn't happen while I was on the road somewhere in France and that there is still some hope that all will come out okay.
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