A charming pattern of daisies and roses and other flowers danced at the top of the treatment room’s soothing pale yellow walls. Dozens of real framed photos, not smart paint, covered one wall, and a low planter bristled with grassy flowers just short of blooming, or maybe just past blooming. Giselle appreciated plants but her medical practice left no time for her own. They added a lovely scent to patient rooms, strong enough to hang around despite the air handlers constantly sifting away all the scents of really old, really sick people. The gray carpet felt soft enough to walk on without shoes, though she wouldn’t dare go barefoot. Patients got ill, and she mistrusted antiseptics after all the drug-resistant bugs of the 2030s. A grandfather clock filled the corner by the window, its chrome
