At the hospital, the fourth-floor corridor smelled of floor wax and green tea. I passed the nurses’ station, where three women in blue scrubs were whispering while looking at a desktop monitor.
One of them looked up as I walked by, her eyes lingering on my face before she quickly turned back to her screen.
I pushed open the door to room 412, where the quiet room was illuminated by the low gray light of the winter morning.
Maya was sitting up in bed when I entered, her right hand pressed flat over her surgical incision as she stared at her phone screen.
The hospital room was quiet except for the low hum of the monitors, but her shoulders were stiff and her face was pale.
“David, you need to see this,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
I sat on the edge of the mattress and took the phone from her hand, my thumb brushing the glass.
