Waiting Room 214 smelled like coffee burned down to tar and rainwater trapped in old carpet.
Ty knew the smell before the route finished building the room. Hospitals kept fear in harmless things. A vending machine. A cup with lipstick on the rim. A jacket dripping onto tile. A television mounted high enough that children had to tilt their heads to watch it.
Small chairs lined one wall. Adult chairs lined the other. The magazine table held a cracked plastic block that might have carried crayons once. A fake plant stood near the counter with dust caught in every leaf.
Beneath the far chair, a child held a green dinosaur with both hands.
Ty stopped. JJ bumped his shoulder blade and caught herself before speaking.
The child looked seven, maybe eight if fear had folded him smaller. A hospital bracelet hung loose around his wrist. His jacket was too thin for the rain, and one sleeve had been pulled down over his knuckles. The dinosaur's broken leg was hidden against his chest.
