I sat perfectly still in the dim room, staring at the brass handle of the closed hospital door.

At seven fifteen the next morning, I stood in the basement cafeteria of St.

Jude Community Hospital, waiting for the stainless steel coffee urn to finish dripping into the tray.

The air down there smelled of fried eggs and pine floor cleaner.

Paula Jenkins set a heavy plastic tray of milk cartons on the stainless steel counter next to the napkin dispenser and wiped her thumbs on her blue scrub top.

“Did your husband ever get those automatic phone alerts cleared up on his cell account?” she asked.