All those foul odors rubbing together: alcohol, ammonia, urine, and stale cafeteria food combined to make a murky soup of stench. For once she was glad she couldn’t smell. She was happy for the errand, though not of course for the circumstances, because it kept her from thinking about Mark’s call. An older woman in a candy striper uniform sat behind the information desk, fully focused on wrapping a gift. “Excuse me,” Daphne said. She cleared her throat loudly. The older woman finally looked up. “Sorry, dear, didn’t see you there. Can I help you?” “You’re a good gift wrapper,” she said. “Oh yes, I have to be. I spend a lot of time doing it. Did you need information?” “I’m looking for Kensie Whitman’s room.” “Well now, just a minute.” The woman jiggled the computer mouse, stared at the screen, then held up four puffy fingers, curved from age and yet perfectly manicured. “She’s still in intensive care. Are you a family member?” “Um, no. I’m a coworker.
