 Why is Doc insistent about an order when the narrator returns from eating?
I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or going—but I know that if I stuck to the old man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner! "Sure," the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc's arthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose, one finger at a time. If a half dozen winos in Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have been wanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. Doc's thin frame, layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side. All my great-grandfathers have it. I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse three doors down. It had happened a few times right after I first found him, but now it was worse. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-specked flophouse doors. The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknown before I could move, what with holding up Doc. I found I couldn't focus both my mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so I concentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow their habit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. Beyond Six, Seven, Eight ... I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work I had once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc.
 The slip of paper the lady had given the narrator was an order for Doc to fulfill
 The narrator didn't get Doc's food order before he left, and he doesn't like burgers  The narrator didn't get Doc's food order before he left, and he doesn't like burgers  There was no order to anything in the room and Doc was getting stressed out, needing structure  The slip of paper the lady had given the narrator was an order for Doc to fulfill