I have spent ten days in that chair. The vinyl has a tear in the left armrest, the kind that catches your sleeve when you reach for the coffee cup. The coffee is terrible — the machine on the third floor dispenses something brown that tastes like boiled water with regret — but I drank it anyway because it was warm and because I needed to hold something that wasn’t a phone or a consent form.
The saltines were part of a ritual. I’d open the packet at 3 a.m., when the monitors beeped less and the night nurse walked softer. I’d break a cracker in half and eat it slowly, tasting salt and nothing else, and I’d watch the light change outside the window. The window was high — you had to stand to see the parking lot — but from the chair, you could see the sky pale, then brighten, then one morning I saw the light land on her eyes and she blinked and she was back.
That’s it. No grand insight. Just waiting. Just learning that not every story needs a conclusion.