At last, Nimrod made it to the street and hailed one of the hundreds of cabs that seem to haunt the streets New York City like so many specters, sometimes turning up just when one needs it, and others vanishing just before one can flag it down. The cab driver of the yellow taxi that Nimrod managed to flag down took in, at a glance, Nimrod's awkward gait, his uncomfortable posture, the swollen ankle, and the pained expression on Nimrod's face, and guessed where Nimrod wanted to go.
"Hospital?" the cab driver asked in a strong Brooklyn accent. Nimrod nodded silently, and hobbled his way into the back seat. "Are you good with Mount Sinai?"
Again, Nimrod nodded, and coughed water out of his lungs as quietly and discreetly as he could.
"So what happened to you?" the Brooklyn cab driver asked curiously, looking in the rearview mirror as he began to pull into the streets of Manhattan.
"What do you mean?" Nimrod asked, trying to appear innocent of any wrongdoing.
The cab driver laughed. "What do I mean?" he repeated. "You're soaking wet and have an injured ankle. Of course I'll be curious!"
Nimrod looked down at the floor, wishing that he wasn't so cold, and wishing, also, that he had a cigar to smoke.
Another short one... but we are getting somewhere, aren't we? Nimrod's on the move! You'll have to wait for the flashback to find out how he got so wet and how he broke his ankle...