A yellow plastic cleaning bucket sat near the drinking fountain, smelling strongly of sanitizer mixed with pine oil.

An orderly in dark green scrubs walked out of a linen supply room carrying a tall stack of folded blue blankets.

His silver name tag read Marcus, printed under the hospital logo.

My mother slowed down and adjusted the strap of her leather handbag.

“Excuse me,” she said, making her voice sound soft and frail.

“Could you tell a worried grandmother which way the newborn intensive care elevators are?”

Marcus stopped near the double metal fire doors.