The Window Shows Winter Now

The hallway is tiled in pale green squares, the floor smelling of iodine. Beyond the last set of doors, the light falls differently—it is the deep yellow of autumn. I carry a fruit, heavy in my palm, its skin the colour of bruised lilac. A nurse in blue scrubs wipes the glass of the window, and I watch her hands. The window shows snow falling onto a lawn, a lawn that does not exist here. My name is called through the intercom. The voice is low and slow, a tone of measured patience. I wait near the cot. The cot has a fresh, yellow sheet folded at the foot. I stand still, listening for the next word.