Dina

The white ceiling lamp is dimmed. The room is dim, lit only by the green light of the monitors and a dim nightlight by the bed.

The child lies on his back. An IV line is inserted into a vein in his left arm. His right arm is in a cast. His face is pale, with dark circles under his eyes. There's a healing bruise on his cheek. Bandages are protruding from under the hem of his hospital gown over his collarbone and ribs. His breathing is shallow and irregular.

Dina sits on a chair against the wall, her legs crossed. She's holding a tablet, checking her readings. Her face is even, emotionless. She doesn't look at the child. Only occasionally does she glance up at the monitors. Evenly, without panic.

The monitor beeps steadily. Footsteps sound somewhere in the hallway. A door closes.

Dina stands up. Adjusts the IV. Checks to see if the tube is kinked. Then sits back down.

A minute passes. Another.

The child wiggles the fingers on his left hand. Then he opens his eyes. They are cloudy and unfocused. His lips are dry and move without making a sound.

Dina comes closer. Looks at the pupils. Takes a glass of water and a straw from the table. Brings it to her lips.

— Drink. Slowly.

The child takes a sip. Chokes. Coughs—briefly, weakly. Winces from the pain in his ribs.

Dina puts the glass away. Adjusts the blanket. Doesn't smile.

The child shifts his gaze. Looks at her. Then lower—at the badge.

"Dina".

The child stares at the badge for a few seconds. Then he closes his eyes. His breathing deepens again. Not sleep, but a lapse.

Dina sits down. Opens her tablet. Writes. Doesn't look at the child.

The monitor is beeping.