Morning arrived without much sunlight.
Dad was scheduled for more tests. Dana returned at seven with a clean sweater and a folder tucked under her arm. She spoke with the nurse, then called someone from the waiting room. I couldn't hear the conversation, but I saw her point toward the hospital forms.
When Noah asked what the folder was, she said it contained Dad's insurance and discharge paperwork.
"Has he been cleared to go home?" I asked.
"Not yet."
"Then there's no discharge paperwork."
"There are forms to prepare."
The answer was calm, but she held the folder tight against her ribs.
A case manager came by later to talk about follow-up care. Dad would need a few days of observation and then a rehabilitation plan. Dana answered most of the questions. When the case manager asked i
