I sleep in the recliner. I eat out of vending machines.
I know which nurse gives the good blankets. (It’s Jenna.)
Time in the hospital isn’t normal. It’s just a clock on the wall and the sound of beeping.
And every day at exactly 3:00 p.m., the same thing happens.
The door opens.
A huge man walks in.
Gray beard.
Leather vest. Boots. Tattoos.
He nods at me, small and respectful, like he’s afraid to take up space.
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