Sleepy Fox Hollow potage.

Whatever he expected from this stranger, immeadiate concern wasn't high on his list. She's all around him at once, and issues questions like machine-gun fire. He leans away from the impromptu check-up. For a man who had been shouldering through vague health concerns for months, he thinks he's being reasonably calm. 

"No," he stammers. "I-I'm okay. Please." 

Doctors and hospitals-- their scrubs, the sharp smell of disinfectant, the distant but heavy presence of sickness and death behind closed doors-- they had never comforted him. Every soft prying hand, every critical eye looking down through a lens to a medical crosshair. Inside the corridors, there was only the mildew in the linoleum floor and a row of vinyl seats against the wall. 

So instead of comfort, or trust, Colin only feels a fierce discomfort; he stays away as if the clinical environment of sanitiser and fluorescent lighting is contagious.