“She counts as a mother and so we’ve just put him in his mother’s arms!”

“But will they bury them together?”

“Don’t worry about that,” she said as she moved to the door:

“No one else can take your spot in the ground. Everyone gets his own grave.”

*

I am listening to the head nurse planted in the corridor. She is voicing her complaints about patients and the personnel working shifts.

“These attendants don’t understand a word I say. The night supervisor caught them sleeping again. And the nurses on duty have been taking away packets after packets of ER cotton.” She stood there waiting for me to ask her why. I was silent for too long and she went on as if overly ashamed:

“Forgive me, hocam, I mean I truly am ashamed to have to say this but, I mean, this is simply unacceptable … I told them not to tell the doctor, that he would be very angry about this. You don’t know what I am taking about, right? Unfortunately that’s the way it is. No matter how careful we are, sir, it just keeps happening. The new health official in ER spotted the activity and told me. I mean the young man’s face was crimson. I mean it’s shocking. At first I simply couldn’t believe it. Then I checked and found out that it was true. It turns out they are using the ER cotton as sanitary pads … For the love of God, how could they do such a thing? ER cotton! Such gall. Well of course I took the necessary steps. I asked them to defend their actions …”

Soon the head nurse’s complaining voice was a sweet bubbling in my ears. I have other things on my mind. Opening my eyes to give her the impression I am listening, I try to keep a displeased expression on my face. Then out of the corner of my eye, I notice a door to a patient’s room off the corridor. For whatever reason it isn’t completely shut. Through the crack I see a patient sitting cross-legged on his bed, I can see what he is doing. His hand under the mattress, he is looking for something. Yes, and he has it out now. A pack of cigarettes. He quickly takes out one and stuffs the pack back in its hiding place. A little later the door opens and out comes a fairly tall, dark-skinned patient on crutches. One hand is clutched in a fist. Without glancing our way, he slowly slips out of sight at the end of the corridor. Obviously he has gone out to have a smoke. I was curious to know more about him. When the head nurse came up for air, I took the chance to ask:

“What’s ailing the patient in 302?”