Something crossed her face.
“No.”
That single syllable landed harder than I expected.
I stared past her at the glass wall of my room. Outside, nurses moved through the hallway in soft shoes. A man in a navy jacket stood near the far wall, hands folded in front of him.
He was tall, maybe in his late fifties or early sixties, with neatly combed gray hair and the stillness of someone who had learned not to take up space unless invited. He wasn’t looking at his phone. He wasn’t pacing. He was just standing there, watching the door like a guard.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
Marlene followed my gaze.
“Him?” she said. “He’s been here.”
“Family?”
“He said he was a friend.”
“I don’t know him.”
Marlene’s expression sharpened, but not with alarm. More like interest. “He hasn’t tried to come in. Just asks whether you’re stable. Brings coffee for the nurses. Sits outside at night.”
“At night?”
“Every night since you were admitted.”
The man looked through the glass then, and our eyes met.
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