Өвөөгийн хуучин эм

The new clinic stands on the hill above the harbour, white and square, with a wide glass door. Grandad stops at the bottom of the path and looks up at it for a long time.

“I used to walk to the old clinic in Dale Street,” he says. “Two miles, every winter.” “Would you walk that far in the snow?” Sara asks. “I would walk it twice. Doctors used to come out to the boats.”

Ben comes up the path holding his hand. A rope has cut a thin wound across his palm. “Seawater used to be our medicine,” Grandad says. “Salt cleans everything.” Sara shakes her head. “Salt will not stop an infection.”

Inside, Mum washes the wound and covers it with a clean white pad. “Take one pill now,” she says. “The medication is only for three days.” Grandad watches from the doorway. “I didn't use to trust pills.”

“Clean cuts heal faster,” Mum says. “Ben will recover by Friday.” Grandad looks at the white pad for a while, and then he nods.

On the wall there is a poster about nutrition: fish, green leaves, brown bread. “That was Gran's soup,” Grandad says. “We used to eat it every Sunday.” “Your soup was good,” Mum says. “Walking two miles was never harmful either.”

Outside, the ambulance is parked by the wall, washed and empty. Grandad pats its white door. “In my day, we would walk,” he says, and Sara laughs.