Plastic chairs, angry lights, that antiseptic nip. On every wall, a sign: No Smoking, Keep Clear, Wait Here. Doors glide open—ambulances, taxicabs, a gray Toyota Yaris deliver hunched, sobbing, sick babies, children, elderly bearing severed fingers, sprained backs, bags of vomit—doors glide closed. A man speeds in, demands answers, dashes off. Wife mops chin, father grips son, friends embrace. In an overflow hallway I clutch his calf as he braces for a shot: “It’s okay. You’re okay.” His muscles release, the nurse retreats, promising “The doctor will see you shortly.” Thursday night in the ER, hour five. I settle in.
Tiny Life Stories 