printed instructions, which first involved finding the elevator bank.
As I got off the elevator, I spotted a whiteboard with names and room numbers and scanned the list: V. Delria. 603 B. The
elevator was in the exact middle of the floor, with two small nurses’ stations on either side and hallways in almost every
direction. I sauntered past the first nurses’ station as if I already knew where I was going, turning the corner and heading
down the first hallway. Immediately, I could tell the room numbers were going the wrong way, so I backtracked and headed down
a hallway in the opposite direction.
As soon as I saw the police guard sitting on a chair outside the room, all my confidence vanished. Adrenaline started flooding
my veins. What had I been thinking? That I would just barrel right past him?
I passed the police guard, walking purposefully. At the end of the hall, with nowhere else to go, I ventured into one of the
rooms. An older woman was being examined by a man in scrubs. “Sorry,” I said, turning around. “Wrong room.”
If only I had a plan. A plan would be useful. I walked slowly back toward the cop. Someone had pasted Halloween decorations
in the hallway. I halted outside a closet door with a witch on a broomstick flying over a full moon. Facing the door, I squinted,
as if I needed perspective on fine artwork.
I decided that any attempt to cleverly divert the cop from his guard post would likely end up in my arrest. The thing to do
was to identify myself as a brand-new reporter at the
Chronicle,
tell him it was my first big car-accident story and that I’d been assigned to check on the victim’s current medical status.
I had to hope that the room door was open and that I could catch a quick glimpse inside while the cop redirected me to patient
information.
A peek, I told myself, all I needed was a peek.
I was heading slowly down the corridor, past several dirty breakfast trays, when I saw the cop rise from his chair. He folded
his newspaper, put it on the seat, and started walking away from me, toward the elevators. Was he going to lunch? Could a
guard leave his post and go to lunch? Wasn’t that some kind of major cop screwup? A miracle just for me?
Slowly, I walked past Delria’s room, noticing as I did that the door was just slightly ajar. I was wearing a cotton sweater
and black jeans and could feel sweat trickle from my armpits all the way down my sides.
I heard the elevator doors open and shut and walked to the end of the hallway and peeked around. The cop was gone. I turned,
headed straight back to room 603 B, and put my hand on the knob.
I glanced over my shoulder, expecting another cop or a nurse to appear, to grab me by my sweater, pull me away from the door,
curse at me for my audacity. But no one came. No one stopped me, so I swung open the door.
It was a private room, dim, with the blinds closed against the sunlight, and empty except for the patient, presumably Victor
Delria, sleeping in the bed. He was lying on his back, hooked up to an IV. A pile of blankets blocked my view. I needed to
see his face, the sty weighting the one eye. I took a single step inside the hospital room and froze, courage failing me.
The room had a pungent odor, like bacteria in a flesh wound.
What if he woke up? What if he looked right at me? Even unconscious, he was terrorizing me. I told myself that the sooner
I saw his face, the sooner I could get the hell out of here. On a chair by the window, I saw some kind of jacket bunched up
inside a clear plastic bag. The color of the jacket was a muted green khaki.
As I took a step closer to the bed, I became aware of the sound of water running.
Directly to my right, a door clicked open and standing in the doorway of a bathroom was a tall man wearing a blue button-down
shirt tucked into blue jeans and a sports jacket. Our eyes met. There was a moment of puzzled recognition.
It was the guy I’d been flirting with
As I got off the elevator, I spotted a whiteboard with names and room numbers and scanned the list: V. Delria. 603 B. The
elevator was in the exact middle of the floor, with two small nurses’ stations on either side and hallways in almost every
direction. I sauntered past the first nurses’ station as if I already knew where I was going, turning the corner and heading
down the first hallway. Immediately, I could tell the room numbers were going the wrong way, so I backtracked and headed down
a hallway in the opposite direction.
As soon as I saw the police guard sitting on a chair outside the room, all my confidence vanished. Adrenaline started flooding
my veins. What had I been thinking? That I would just barrel right past him?
I passed the police guard, walking purposefully. At the end of the hall, with nowhere else to go, I ventured into one of the
rooms. An older woman was being examined by a man in scrubs. “Sorry,” I said, turning around. “Wrong room.”
If only I had a plan. A plan would be useful. I walked slowly back toward the cop. Someone had pasted Halloween decorations
in the hallway. I halted outside a closet door with a witch on a broomstick flying over a full moon. Facing the door, I squinted,
as if I needed perspective on fine artwork.
I decided that any attempt to cleverly divert the cop from his guard post would likely end up in my arrest. The thing to do
was to identify myself as a brand-new reporter at the
Chronicle,
tell him it was my first big car-accident story and that I’d been assigned to check on the victim’s current medical status.
I had to hope that the room door was open and that I could catch a quick glimpse inside while the cop redirected me to patient
information.
A peek, I told myself, all I needed was a peek.
I was heading slowly down the corridor, past several dirty breakfast trays, when I saw the cop rise from his chair. He folded
his newspaper, put it on the seat, and started walking away from me, toward the elevators. Was he going to lunch? Could a
guard leave his post and go to lunch? Wasn’t that some kind of major cop screwup? A miracle just for me?
Slowly, I walked past Delria’s room, noticing as I did that the door was just slightly ajar. I was wearing a cotton sweater
and black jeans and could feel sweat trickle from my armpits all the way down my sides.
I heard the elevator doors open and shut and walked to the end of the hallway and peeked around. The cop was gone. I turned,
headed straight back to room 603 B, and put my hand on the knob.
I glanced over my shoulder, expecting another cop or a nurse to appear, to grab me by my sweater, pull me away from the door,
curse at me for my audacity. But no one came. No one stopped me, so I swung open the door.
It was a private room, dim, with the blinds closed against the sunlight, and empty except for the patient, presumably Victor
Delria, sleeping in the bed. He was lying on his back, hooked up to an IV. A pile of blankets blocked my view. I needed to
see his face, the sty weighting the one eye. I took a single step inside the hospital room and froze, courage failing me.
The room had a pungent odor, like bacteria in a flesh wound.
What if he woke up? What if he looked right at me? Even unconscious, he was terrorizing me. I told myself that the sooner
I saw his face, the sooner I could get the hell out of here. On a chair by the window, I saw some kind of jacket bunched up
inside a clear plastic bag. The color of the jacket was a muted green khaki.
As I took a step closer to the bed, I became aware of the sound of water running.
Directly to my right, a door clicked open and standing in the doorway of a bathroom was a tall man wearing a blue button-down
shirt tucked into blue jeans and a sports jacket. Our eyes met. There was a moment of puzzled recognition.
It was the guy I’d been flirting with
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