She carried a small tray with a plastic cup of water and a fresh roll of medical tape, though her hands were empty of any actual medicine.
She did not look at me at first, keeping her eyes fixed on the plastic tubing of Ben’s IV line. Her fingers went to her blue plastic ID badge, adjusting it twice against her scrubs with a sharp, nervous snap.
The silver-plated water pitcher on the bedside table caught the green glare of the heart monitor, sweating small beads of condensation onto the tray.
