Where had he last lain his keys?  As he took a seat to help him remember, other memories flooded in, of other keys, from as far back as when — at eleven — one had fallen from his pocket into a storm drain.  He had in a flash dropped himself halfway into that drain before passersby pulled him out.  He couldn’t get them to accept that of the many things he was responsible for he was his most responsible with keys.  As it turned out, he never lost keys again.  Was he now in his advancing years growing irresponsible?  Does it start with losing keys?  The very ones in his hand?  He was in a waiting room.  He’d already seen the doctor.  He had his keys in his hand.  He could see that he had gotten disoriented on his way out of the doctor’s office, and that this was now habit.  The dread of an update on his own inevitable end momentarily blurred the real.  In going after the key as a boy, he had simply lain flat on the street and dropped himself into the drain.  There had been a complete disregard of a fall into a deep hole — which is why, as was also usual, how light he then felt on his way out the doctor’s waiting room door.