I am not going to tell you that I understand the voice.
I have thought about it for a long time, in the way you think about things at four in the morning when the hospital is quiet and the coffee has stopped working. I do not know if it is a leak in the building or a leak in me. I do not know if it is a gift or a symptom. I have considered both, at length, and I have concluded that the answer does not change what I do with it.
The voice has never once told me an easy thing. It has never told me that a patient will be fine or that a person will be kind or that anything will turn out any way other than the way it turns out if I stand still and let it. Every time it speaks, it hands me the same thing. Not the future. The margin. The centimeter between what will happen and what could.
I hav
