The corridor outside Room Two Twenty was quiet, save for the steady hum of the hospital heating vents pushing warm, dry air into the hallway.
I stood near the rolling chart rack, reviewing the medical file Florence had handed me.
The patient was seventy-three years old, the same age as myself, admitted with advanced pulmonary disease that had resisted all standard interventions.
I flipped the page to look at the emergency contact information, but the line for next of kin had indeed been left blank, replaced only by the name of Walter, an estate lawyer in the state capital.
My fingers halted on the edge of the blue cardboard folder as I read the patient’s full name printed in block letters across the top tab.
Thomas Alan Vance.
I had not spoken his name aloud in more than fifty years.
“Nancy, is there an issue with the intake?” Florence asked, stopping beside me with a tray of clean syringes.
“No,” I said, though my voice sounded thinner than usual to my own ears. “The chart is complete.”
