The security desk in the lobby was manned by a guard named Miller, who wore a faded blue uniform and a silver badge that had lost its luster. He was eating a turkey sandwich from a wax paper wrapper.
I laid a printed sheet of paper on the high counter between us.
“I need to restrict the visitor list for room four-twelve,” I said.
Miller looked up from his crossword puzzle, his pen hovering. “That is the maternity recovery wing?”
“My wife is there,” I said. “These three people are not allowed on the floor under any circumstances.”
He picked up the paper, squinting at the photocopied driver’s licenses of my mother, my sister, and Mark.
“Are they local?” Miller asked.
“Two of them are currently in Florida,” I said. “But they might return. The husband, Mark, is the one I am most concerned about. He is tall, always looking at his phone, and speaks with a very polished, urgent voice.”
