The hospital was nothing like the one he was used to back home, where the receptionist was more plastic than the purified water dispenser. Here, there was no openness, no space, nothing shines or has the smell of disinfectant. Instead, the way in is down a long hallway so narrow that if a wheelchair or trolley were to come to other way, he’d have to dip into a side room to let it go by. The walls were once painted, he could tell that from the cream flakes that remained, though mostly they show the grey undercoat or perhaps the concrete beneath that. The floor was uneven from so much traffic with both feet and wheels, and it’s darker than a mausoleum. The air was stagnant like it had just went into pit. There was no hand sanitizers on the walls, how they prevent the spread of germs here, he wonders—possibly they don’t. From ahead come muffled voices, some angry, some placating. He bite down on his lip, it wasn’t going to be fun here. In one hand, he had a bag of burger and fries,
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