Milka's point of view

I clocked in for my nightshift at St. Mary's Hospital where I work. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they always did, casting that sterile glow over everything. It was just past midnight, and the ward was quiet. The kind of quiet that makes one hear his own heartbeat.

My name tag read "Milka Craven, RN," but tonight, like every other night lately, my mind was on room 214.

Mr. Elias Grant, the widowed patient who'd been there for weeks recovering ...