On the second page of the morning intake log, written in blue hospital ballpoint, was a name I hadn’t seen in forty-five years.

Nurse Helen tapped her clipboard twice with her pen against the aluminum bed rail in room 214.

“She told the orderly her oatmeal this morning tasted like wet plaster,” Helen said, tucking the edge of a clean white fitted sheet beneath the corner of the mattress.

“Then she offered him five dollars from her purse to run down to the gas station and get her a real cup of black coffee.”

“Did he take the five dollars?” I asked, balancing my worn leather pastoral ledger on my forearm.

“He thought about it for a second,” Helen said, straightening the top blanket with two quick tugs.

“Her hospice intake paperwork is scheduled for Friday morning, Tom, but she acts like she owns the entire second floor.”

“She griped about the draft under the door, too,” Helen added, tapping her pen against the clip.

“And she asked whether our church still keeps its old membership ledgers down in the rectory basement.”

“What’s her full name on the chart?” I asked. “Margaret Miller,” Helen said, turning around with an armful of folded towels.

“Or Margaret Miller Kade, depending on which insurance card you look at. You know her?”
“I used to,” I said.

“Well, she asked for the duty chaplain three times before breakfast,” Helen said.

“She said she needed somebody in this building who knew how to write clearly on official legal lines.”

I slipped past the yellow privacy curtain into the narrow, quiet room.

A plastic cup of apple juice sat on the rolling bedside table next to a plastic spoon still in its wrapper.