“Old people like stories,” she said. “They do not have much else to do but catalog the past.”
“It feels different with her,” I said. “Like she already knows the answers.”
“You are overthinking it, Daniel,” Sarah said, tapping my shoulder with her keys. “Get those linens inside before the supervisor sees you holding them like a baby.”
She headed down the hall toward the medicine cart, her keys jingling against her thigh.
By seven o’clock, the hallway lights were dimmed to their night settings, casting long shadows across the green carpet.
I brewed the chamomile tea in the small staff kitchen, watching the electric kettle bubble.
My shift was technically over at seven-thirty, but I always stayed to finish the rounds.
I carried the small porcelain mug of tea into Gloria’s room.
She was sitting in her high-backed armchair, the faded canvas bag clutched tightly against her stomach.
Her fingers were moving over the coarse fabric, tracing the seams as if she were counting stitches.
“I brought your tea, Gloria,” I said, setting it on the bedside table.
“Thank you, Daniel,” she said.
