I arrive at the hospital at 4:38 PM.
The air outside is damp and dull, stained in that tired blue-gray shade that always hangs before sunset in this part of the city. My scarf keeps slipping off my shoulder. I keep tightening my grip on the small paper bag in my hand, the one filled with fruit I cut this morning before my shift and put it on the refrigerator at the cafe.
A pear rolls inside when I move too fast. I hear it thunk against the box of chopped papaya.
Inside the building, the lights are already humming. That white, soft flicker hospitals always seem to have—like it's trying to pretend it's cozy. But nothing here is cozy. Everything is too clean, too controlled. The kind of place that smells like metal and diluted alcohol and fake lavender. It's quiet, except for the occasional shuffle of rubber soles or the murmur of a distant IV monitor.
I walk toward the reception desk, adjusting my bag strap.
