I keep my eyes on the ceiling until the fluorescent light stops shimmering. The room smells like lemon and sleep. Footsteps pass, the kind that try not to be footsteps. Then the door opens as if it learned how to breathe.
A nurse enters with a mask pulled high and a cap shadowing her eyes. Her posture is wrong for a stranger; it is right for a friend. I recognize the swing of her shoulders before the light touches her face. Daisy, dressed in white, moves like she belongs to this corridor. She tips her chin once, a tiny signal that means now. Two sentences carry the rest: she has bribed the night staff; the back exit is clear.
I rise. The mattress sighs in relief. My body remembers heaviness and then purpose. I tuck my phone, documents, and the smallest pieces of my life into the deep poc
