“It varies,” Samira lied. “But I’ll be heading home shortly. How is the patient doing? I wanted to stop by and check.”

“Well, aren’t you a dear! He’s doing reasonably well, but he’s not good with pain, and he’s having a lot of pain. The nurse who was just in here gave him an additional pain shot. I hope it works. Why don’t you go in and say hello. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”

“I’m not sure that’s appropriate, since he just had a pain shot. I don’t want to bother him.”

“It’ll be no bother. Come on!” Mrs. Benfatti took Samira by the elbow and walked her into her husband’s room. The lights had been dimmed, but the overall level of illumination was reasonably bright, since the large, flat-screen TV was on and tuned to the BBC. Mr. Benfatti was propped up in a semi-recumbent position. His left leg was encased in a device that was slowly but constantly flexing the knee joint thirty degrees several times a minute.

“Herbert, dear,” Mrs. Benfatti called out over the sound of the TV. “Look who’s here.”

Mr. Benfatti lowered the TV’s volume with the remote and looked over at Samira. He recognized her and, like his wife, commented on the impressive length of Samira’s workday.

Before Samira could comment, Mrs. Benfatti intervened. “I don’t know about the rest of you people, but I’m exhausted. I’m going back to the hotel and collapse. Good night again, dear,” she said, kissing Herbert’s broad forehead. “Hope you sleep well.”

Mr. Benfatti’s right hand waved weakly. His left hand, with the IV going into his arm remained perfectly still. Mrs. Benfatti said good-bye to Samira and departed.

Samira found herself in an awkward predicament. She wasn’t interested in getting into a conversation with the man if she was going to go through with her plan, yet she couldn’t just stand there. Plus, having run into Mrs. Benfatti, was there more reason to cancel? The only thing that was for certain was what she’d thought was going to be so simple was turning out to be anything but. Unable to make up her mind, Samira just dumbly remained rooted to her spot.

Mr. Benfatti waited for a moment before inquiring: “Is there something I can do for you, like run down to the kitchen and rustle you up a snack?” He chucked briefly at his own attempt at humor.

“How is your knee feeling?” Samira questioned, while she tried to organize her thoughts.

“Oh, great,” Mr. Benfatti scoffed. “I’m ready to go for a jog.”

Unconsciously, Samira’s hand slipped into her pocket, and her fingers encountered the full syringe. With a start, she was reminded why she was there.