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needs shelter,” the woman said pointedly in English.
    “Very well, Mrs. Wiersma,” the doctor said without enthusiasm. “I’ll see to him. Here, take off your shirt.”
    Mrs. Wiersma smiled and nodded encouragement. She showed no sign of going away. As Mark pulled his sweater off, he couldn’t help but wonder whether it was because the Dutch had less body modesty or because the hostel staff were used to processing the homeless on the assembly line. There wasn’t much of a crowd tonight — Mrs. Wiersma and the doctor were the only people he’d seen. But it was early evening, sun barely down and warm yet. The real crush wouldn’t happen until the nighttime North Sea wind really began to bite.
    The doctor examined Mark with distracted briskness — poked here, tapped here, placed the cold ring of the stethoscope to his skin and bade him breathe. Mark did.
    “Any chronic conditions or communicable diseases?”
    “No.”
    The doctor tapped Mark a last time on the chest. “You sound good for one of ours,” he said, frowning slightly. “You smell better than most, also.”
    “Thanks, man.”
    The doctor nodded and turned away. Mark sat dangling his long legs off the end of the examining table and tried not to look at Mrs. Wiersma. She was staring at him with the earnest intensity of an indulgent grownup watching an unusually untalented neighbor child perform in a school pageant: knowing the child will screw up, but trying to beat the odds by sheer positive energy.
    “Hold out your arm.”
    “What?”
    The doctor’s bored professionalism turned chill. Mark saw he held a hypodermic. “Your arm. I must draw blood. Come along, now, it won’t take a minute.”
    He reached for Mark’s arm. Mark snatched it away and held his other hand protectively over the elbow. “What’re you testing for?”
    Scowling openly now, the doctor turned and said something to Mrs. Wiersma in Dutch. “Certainly he has a right to know,” she answered in English. “We are not crowded now. Come, be gentle.”
    The doctor sighed. “We must test for hepatitis, HIV, and xenovirus Takis-A.”
    Mark felt as if the flesh of his hairless chest and arms had turned to the marble it resembled in the otherworldly light. “Wild card virus? W-why?”
    “It is the law.”
    “New government regulations,” Mrs. Wiersma said hurriedly. “There was much resistance here to the idea of mandatory testing. The European Commission proposed it last fall, and the Council of Ministers passed the directive. Because it concerned health and safety, there was nothing the Netherlands could do. The European Community holds sway.”
    “Your arm,” the doctor said.
    “No,” Mark said. “Wait. I — can’t.”
    The doctor turned away. “No test, no stay.”
    “Oh, please,” Mrs. Wiersma said. “We wish to help you. We can’t if you won’t let us.”
    Mark moistened his lips. He made himself breathe quickly and shallowly, as if a panic attack was coming on. It didn’t take much acting skill. “I — I’m afraid of needles. Got it real bad.”
    “Perhaps if you had a few minutes to think it over, to calm yourself,” Mrs. Wiersma said. “Really, it’s for your own good.”
    “I haven’t got all night,” the doctor complained. “I have other duties.”
    “Just let me think about it a little,” Mark said.
    The doctor had lost interest in him, returning to his chair and paper. Mark hurriedly pulled on his shirt and sweater and walked back out to the front. Mrs. Wiersma hovered beside him, cooing at him and touching him dartingly on the elbow.
    “I need to go outside a minute,” Mark said. He had a catch to his voice, as if he was in danger of throwing up at any moment. He had gotten so frothed up by phony fear of needles and genuine fear of discovery that he really was about to puke.
    “Certainly, certainly,” Mrs. Wiersma said, alighting behind her little wooden desk. “You poor man.”
    Mark smiled wanly at her, nodded, walked out the