The Passion of Patrick Macneill
“The unit was never totally dark or entirely silent. The halls vibrated with a fluorescent hum and the blips and beeps of monitors. From behind closed doors, she heard a cough, a moan, a muted television. Laughter and chatter drifted from the nurses' station as they celebrated somebody's birthday.Solitary Kate hadn't been invited, though she knew that if she stopped by the charge nurse would offer her a piece of cake. She turned the other way, down the hall, toward the patient rooms.The kernel of doubt hadn't gone away. It swelled under her breastbone, a small, indigestible lump, a tiny hot spot that upset her stomach and her concentration.She wasn't on call tonight. Roberts, the attending, had taken the four o'clock rounds. She had no real reason to drop her sliding stack of paperwork and squeak down the brightly painted, dimly lit floor like a ghost in orthopedic shoes. No reason. Only a burning in her gut. Quietly, she depressed the handle to Jack MacNeill's room and opened the door....A pale rectangle of light spilled across the bed to the raised footrest of the recliner on the other side.MoreLess
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