Did people actually drink sanitizing hand gel? I supposed they must—hence the sign.
Part of me, a very small sliver, briefly considered dipping my head to taste a drop, purely because I’d been ordered not to.
No, Eleanor, I told myself. Curb your rebellious tendencies. Stick to tea, coffee and vodka.
I was apprehensive about using it on my hands, for fear that it might inflame my eczema, but I did so nonetheless.
Good hygiene is so important— heaven forfend that I would end up becoming a vector of infection.
The ward was large, with two long rows of beds, one down each wall.
All the inhabitants were interchangeable: hairless, toothless old men who were either dozing or staring blankly ahead, chins slumped forward.
I spotted Sammy, right at the end on the left-hand side, but only because he was fat.
The rest of them were bones draped with pleated gray skin. I sat down on the vinyl wipe-clean chair next to his bed.
There was no sign of Raymond. Sammy’s eyes were closed but he obviously wasn’t comatose.
He would be on a special ward if that were the case, hooked up to machinery, wouldn’t he?
I wondered why Raymond had lied about it. I could tell from the regular way that Sammy’s chest rose and fell that he was sleeping.
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