Other nights it looked like a storm had passed through.
One Monday, a teenage girl discharged after an asthma scare left me a drawing tucked between the shirts. It was a stick figure in oversized sweatpants with a little heart over the chest.
On the pant leg she had written: STILL HERE.
I kept that drawing in my locker.
Then came the ice storm.
Roads glazed over. Cars slid into medians. The waiting room filled with coughs, falls, and people who looked like they had not been warm in days.
Near dawn, we discharged an older man with chest pain that turned out not to be a heart attack. Good news on paper.
Bad news in real life.
He admitted, very quietly, that the motel had put him out two days earlier. He had spent the night in a laundromat before calling 911 because he was scared the pain meant he was dying.
He stood in the front vestibule staring at the snow like it had personally come for him.
“I don’t want to make trouble,” he said.
I handed him thermal socks, a hoodie, gloves, and one of the last bus passes.
“You’re not trouble,” I said. “You’re cold.”
He looked at me for a second like nobody had said anything that plain to him in a long time.
Then, at almost five in the morning, the doors slid open again.
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