I hate the sterile smell of hospital. It's like an airport, but more hand sanitizer. It's egg-shell white and muddy gray and the humming of electronics. He's hooked up, and there are tubes jutting out of his nostrils and pins inside the bend of his arm. He's a machine and he's eating his mashed potato and gravy dinner. There's an unopened apple juice carton. Christopher comes in, apologizes for interrupting, and starts taking blood. His heart's beating and the computer screen behind his head is beeping; green lines jump up and down like aztec scribbles.
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