stepped outside each time because I didn’t want her to feel observed.
I learned the rhythm of the hospital.
The breakfast
trays came too early.
The hallway lights never fully dimmed.
The nurses changed shifts at seven.
The vending machine on the fourth floor stole dollar bills.
Sophie liked the blue blanket from the warmer better than the white ones folded in the cabinet.
On the third day, she asked me to pass her water.
On the fourth, she let me read aloud from the mystery novel I’d found in the gift shop.
On the fifth, she laughed.
It was small and hoarse, more breath than sound, but it was real.
The laugh came after I mispronounced the name of a fictional detective three times in one paragraph.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she said.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m bringing dramatic flair.”
