Even with a map of the hospital, I managed to take a wrong turn. I’d been there enough that I knew I was in the wrong place. I’d turned right at the chapel, gone down a set of stairs, but somehow I missed the entrance. Instead of the main entrance, I was in the Infusion wing of the hospital. At 5:30 on a Sunday evening, not a creature was stirring. The heels of my shoes disturbed the peace.
I backtracked, figuring I’d missed a corridor somewhere. The patient transport elevators opened.
A petite nurse or orderly in her 50s pressed on a large gurney bearing by a burly young man in his 30s. He stared at his left arm, encased in a shoebox-sized contraption with red and green lights and an array of tubes.
As I passed, I heard the woman say, “Do it for your wife. Do it for your baby. But do it for someone.”