7:16 A.M.

           It’smorning.Andinsidethehospital,there’sadifferentkindofdawn,arustlingofcovers,aclearingoftheeyes.Insomeways,thehospitalnevergoestosleep.Thelightsstayonandthenursesstayawake,buteventhoughit’sstilldarkoutside,youcantellthatthingsarewakingup.Thedoctorsareback,yankingonmyeyelids,shiningtheirlightsatme,frowningastheyscribblenotesinmychartasthoughI’veletthemdown.

           Idon’tcareanymore.I’mtiredofthisall,anditwillbeoversoon.Thesocialworkerisbackondutyagain,too.Itlookslikethenight’ssleephadlittleimpactonher.Hereyesarestillheavy,herhairakinkymess.Shereadsmychartandlistenstoupdatesfromthenursesonmybumpynight,whichseemstomakeherevenmoretired.Thenursewiththeblue-blackskinisalsoback.Shegreetedmebytellingmehowgladshewastoseemethismorning,howshe’dbeenthinkingaboutmelastnight,hopingI’dbehere.Thenshenoticedthebloodstainonmyblanketandtskedtskedbeforehustlingofftogetmeanewone.

           AfterKimleft,therehaven’tbeenanymorevisitors.IguessWillowhasrunoutofpeopletolobbymewith.Iwonderifthisdecidingbusinessissomethingthatallthenursesareawareof.NurseRamirezsureknewaboutit.AndIthinkthenursewithmenowknowsit,too,judgingbyhowcongratulatoryshe’sactingthatImadeitthroughthenight.AndWillowseemslikesheknowsit,too,withthewayshe’sbeenmarchingeveryonethroughhere.Ilikethesenursessomuch.