By late morning the white walls are singing with colors of life in the bustle of white nylon nurses and bouquets delivered and whispering visitors poking their heads into rooms.

The numbers are held within whispers passed between shifts; no losses, no empty beds.

More morphine for the old man at the end of the corridor. Go quietly into the little girl's room; see if the parents need any help or a coffee, a sandwich, a priest.

Wish the day would go by faster; wish it was time to go home.