LAUSR

The phrase “house call” conjures up nostalgia for an era most of us have never experienced, painted with cheerful and tender Norman Rockwell–style strokes. The avuncular physician, likely a man, clad in a crisp suit, with a capacious leather satchel filled with tinctures of now-illegal substances clinking in glass bottles. The cherubic child clad in a white nightgown, tucked under a patchwork quilt, curls against the pillow, clutching a beloved doll. The worried parent, likely a woman, hovering over the bedside with a cool compress against the fevered forehead.