Compassion

He sounded tired, but in good spirits. "It surprised me to no end that they're still doing a kind of 'candy striper' thing; we do not, in fact, have to lay here feeling like we're in surgical solitary confinement." The nurse, her face barely visible in the mask and shield, bustled about the room, recording the readings from the instruments. "That first night, I think one of the volunteers stayed with me all night," he continued, moving the phone into his left hand while the nurse checked his pulse on the right. "It was the sweetest thing. The pain was really something, and she was there at my bedside the whole time. Marvelous!" The nurse glanced at him and then looked over at the confused orderly (who'd come to collect the morning tray); they moved quickly into the hallway and shut the door. "Um ... have we allowed volunteers back on the floors or is that guy delusional?" the orderly asked, making a mark on his retrieval sheet. "Neither," the nurse sighed, moving into the alcove to change the gown she wore over her scrubs and her gloves. "This has always been a plague hospital - a CDC main hub. Our ghosts are extra compassionate." "I would recommend this place in a heartbeat," the conversation continued in Room 4162F.