There’s no one in the hospital corridors. It’s the hottest part of the day and the patients are quietly dying in the muggy heat, with the fans on. Manuel moves forward like a dead man walking, his breath bubbling up thick and raucous, an echo of his father’s, who is lying in the far room on the right. He can’t remember the number but it doesn’t matter, he knows where the room is, he could find it with his eyes shut, it’s been a month now, and not long to go, the doctors said. He walks past the break room, the girls are laughing together, tired, their uniforms off, wearing sleeveless tops, slumped on plastic chairs, fiddling with cigarettes they’ll smoke shortly when they drum up the courage to go downstairs. But it’s too hot and their shift started so early. They look up at him and greet him with a smile. There’s a bunch of photos pinned to the back wall: birth announcements, postcards with blondes embracing the camera lens on overexposed beaches. Right next to them are highlighted memos, roster lists, their individual timetables. One of the nurses fiddles with a packet of chocolate waffles, unbranded, mass-produced rubbish given out to the patients. The chocolate has melted inside the plastic, making them unappetizing. She stands up when she recognizes him.

“He’ll be happy to see you.”

Manuel grunts, nothing else. But he smiles at her anyway, because he’s been taught to be charming with girls. This one’s easily over fifty but as far as Manuel’s concerned, even past a certain age women are still girls. Especially those you can touch, those who grew up not far from here or who do a job that gets their hands dirty.

She gives him an encouraging look. Unable to tell if he dreads it or hopes for it, she hears him murmur, “Is he asleep?”

The palliative care girls seem livelier than the others; it’s something he’s noticed while hanging around the hospital on his own, whenever he goes downstairs for a smoke or escapes his father’s room to get a coffee from the machine. Something extra in their lipstick, bright, frequent laughter, a studied kindness when talking to close relatives. He sometimes wonders which of them will inform him. He can’t remember their first names. It’s the dark-haired one, the blonde, the one with the weird earrings, the fat one, the very young one. He can’t tell the difference between nurses and carers. They form a vaguely reassuring magma, they do what he’s incapable of doing: handle his father’s broken, sick body, change his drip, spoon-feed him, wipe his backside. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he looks at their hands, every time.