The morning came with a kind of surgical precision—cold air, clean light, and the solemn click of a badge scanner against glass. Dr. Malik arrived early. Not out of urgency or virtue, but because sleep had fled him. He had spent the predawn hours pacing in his apartment, dressing deliberately, choosing silence over radio. The hospital's eastern wing gleamed under the rising sun. The world outside still yawned, but the machinery inside had long resumed its rhythm.
He passed the nurses' station where familiar nods were exchanged, bypassed the pediatric wing's colorful walls, and turned into a quieter corridor, where Room 5C was tucked behind glass doors labeled ADMINISTRATIVE SUITE. The staff meeting was scheduled for 7:45 a.m., and he was among the first to enter.
The room was rectangular and efficient, fluorescent lights humming gently overhead. A large table bisected the room, lined with black ergonomic chairs. A digital screen faced the head of the table. There was no aroma of coffee yet—just the scent of freshly wiped surfaces, plastic binders, and whatever the HVAC system decided to distribute that day. Dr. Malik took a seat midway down the left side, his folder closed in front of him.
Dr. Harinder Aujla arrived next, a tall internist with a shaved head and thick black glasses that exaggerated the sharpness of his gaze. He was known for terse remarks and excellent diagnostic instincts. He gave Malik a brief nod, then busied himself with a small notepad and his phone.
Next came Dr. Mónica Alvarez, chief of the trauma department, her curly hair pulled tightly into a bun, white coat open over navy scrubs. She walked with the posture of someone who hadn't slept in a bed in two days but didn't see that as cause for complaint.
"Morning," she muttered, sliding into the seat across from Malik. "They better not waste time today."
Dr. Malik gave a small smile. "They usually do."
By 7:50, most of the seats had filled. George Malik entered last, offering a wave and slipping into a chair near the rear. He avoided eye contact with his brother, simply not wanting to see his reflection.
Then came Superintendent Ellen Brayer. She entered with a pace neither rushed nor idle. A grey suit over a black turtleneck, glasses hanging from her neck on a slim chain. Her expression was unreadable, composed in a way that resisted warmth but not humanity.
"Good morning, everyone," she began, standing at the head of the table. The screen behind her flickered to life, showing a clean blue template with hospital branding. "Let's begin with departmental reports. Then we'll address the incident from yesterday."
Updates followed. Short reports from Mónica about the trauma unit's bed capacity. Harinder noted a spike in respiratory cases among elderly patients. A surgical resident named Dr. Xinyi Tao—new to many—mentioned an error in supply chains affecting anesthetics. Nothing dramatic. Each update was noted in the minutes by Ms. Reilly, the superintendent's assistant, typing with expressionless speed.
Finally, Brayer tapped her stylus against the table lightly. "Regarding yesterday's code blue in Pediatrics—patient Jeffrey Elms, age eight. Deceased at 15:42."
The air did not change, but the temperature seemed to. No one moved.
"The protocols were followed," Brayer said, voice steady. "Dr. Setumo was attending. Dr. Malik and Dr. Rupert assisted. Code was called appropriately. Duration: 32 minutes. Cause of death: confirmed cardiac arrest due to advanced sepsis."
She glanced briefly at her tablet. "A full review will be logged and closed by end of week. No disciplinary action pending. But I encourage staff to review code duration guidelines and pediatric sepsis checklists. We'll be updating those per the latest revisions from the State Board."
No one objected. No one nodded.
Brayer paused, looked at no one in particular. "That's all we'll say for now."
Then the meeting shifted back to metrics. ICU turnover. Budget forecasts. Dr. Tao asked a question about policy involving overnight interns. Harinder gave a dry quip about coffee rations. Ms. Reilly never stopped typing.
Dr. Malik sat still. Not troubled—he had no appetite for dramatics. But inside, something had sat down again, in the same chair as yesterday. It wasn't grief, exactly. It wasn't guilt. It was the kind of thought you couldn't file or discharge. It would leave when it chose to.
The meeting ended at 8:35 a.m. Chairs pushed back. Folders gathered. No applause. No sentiment. Just the sound of shoes returning to motion, of a hospital deciding once again to move forward.
Dr. Malik stood. Outside the glass doors, the corridor seemed brighter. The hospital day had fully begun.
....
The morning air at Jamaica Hospital Medical Center bore no great announcements, no fanfare. It simply came in, quiet and cool through the cracked upper windows of the shared patient room in Ward C, a sliver of sun crawling up the tiled floor like it had nowhere better to be. It was early, but the room had already begun to stir.
Theophilus was awake before Dr. Malik arrived. He sat upright on the edge of his bed, arms resting on his lap, his leg wrapped with careful bandages. The metal rods were long gone now. Physical therapy had started weeks ago, but progress came in slivers—measured by degrees of bend and winces of pain. His right arm, still healing from the fracture and muscle trauma, twitched slightly each time he tried to adjust himself.
Dr. Malik entered without a word, clipboard in hand, a stethoscope already hanging from his neck. He gave a brief nod to the nurse on duty and stepped to Theophilus' bedside.
"Morning, Theo," he said. Not overly warm, nor distant.
"Doctor," Theophilus replied, offering a faint smile, as if morning greetings required rationing.
Dr. Malik pulled on his gloves and gestured gently. "Let's see the arm first. Any numbness overnight?"
"Just the usual," Theophilus replied. "Sharp, when I sleep on the wrong side. Still aches before rain."
Dr. Malik took the arm with the practiced care of someone who had held pain in his hands before. He rotated the elbow gently, palpated the forearm, tested the fingers. He said nothing for a moment, simply listening to tendons, joints, subtle expressions.
"You're gaining strength," he said. "Some stiffness, but less inflammation. I'll approve more strain next week if the progress holds."
Theophilus nodded. "I think I can handle it."
Dr. Malik jotted something on the chart, then turned his attention to the leg. He peeled back the covers slowly. The muscle had filled in; swelling had lessened. The calf tensed involuntarily at his touch.
"Good. Range next. Try flexing up, slow."
Theophilus obeyed, and the room held a soft hush, save for the controlled exhale from his lungs.
"A bit more each week," Malik offered. "Pain?"
"Like gravel beneath skin. But cleaner than before."
The words earned the smallest quirk of an eyebrow. "We'll take that."
Across the room, Dr. Cindy Rupert adjusted the IV line of a small girl no older than eight. The child, hair golden and soft like morning itself, was laughing quietly at something Cindy had said. A doll sat propped on the pillow beside her, missing an eye but not any of its charm. Dr. Rupert smiled gently, her presence more than medicinal, and moved to examine the chart before crouching to meet the girl at eye level.
"You'll be out of here soon," she said. "But I'll miss having you keep me in line."
The girl gave a firm, exaggerated nod. "Doctors need patients to tell them when they're wrong."
Rupert laughed, real and unguarded.
Old man Ramus, from his bed by the window, was watching the hallway through the thin crack of the open door. He had said little all morning. A tray of uneaten oatmeal sat on his nightstand. The television above him played a muted local news broadcast no one was watching.
A nurse passed in front of the door, then a patient with family. A man in his fifties was being discharged; a small group had come to collect him. There were balloons. A younger woman clung to his side with practiced affection.
Old man Ramus watched them go.
"I guess he was also discharged," he said, not facing anyone.
Dr. Malik, still seated near Theophilus, looked up.
"Yes."
Ramus nodded slowly, then turned his head to the ceiling.
"Not the way we all hope to be," he said. "But... maybe it helps his mother. She needed that chapter to end."
Dr. Malik said nothing.
Ramus sighed. "I watched her once. When she visited. She looked like a woman who had carried too much for too long. Maybe she needed something to put down. Even if it was him."
Theophilus shifted slightly, adjusting his pillow.
"Who will take you when you leave here, old man?" he asked, not unkindly.
Ramus smiled. "No one. Just me. Been that way a while."
Then, he turned. "And you?"
Theophilus gave a small laugh. "I don't even belong to this country. No one waits for me at the gate."
Ramus blinked slowly. He turned his head back to the door. "Strange kind of freedom, that."
A silence settled between them. Not the hollow silence of grief, but the kind that knits things together in stillness.
From the hallway, the sound of wheels squeaked faintly. Another patient was being pushed toward recovery. Somewhere else, an alarm went off. Then quiet again.
Dr. Malik stood, making a note on Theophilus' chart.
"We'll run more mobility tests in the afternoon. You're holding up well."
Theophilus offered a tired smile. "I'll be ready."
Dr. Rupert finished her rounds, passing by Dr. Malik on her way out.
"That kid's got more spirit than most adults I know," she said, softly.
Dr. Malik looked over. "Then maybe she'll recover twice as fast."
Rupert smirked. "Maybe we all should be that lucky."
And then she left the room.
The morning deepened. Light pooled in the corners. Another round of duty loomed, but for a moment, the room felt still, held between healing and history, caught in the strange in-between where doctors continued to move forward, even when no one was waiting at the gate.