Behind them, a nurse pushed a wheelchair just in case, its wheels whispering against the polished floor, the vinyl seat empty and waiting.
The fourth floor was quiet at this hour, the kind of hush that only hospitals at night can manage—a thick, almost tangible stillness broken only by the occasional beep of a monitor or the soft squeak of a cart being pushed through distant corridors. Most patient rooms had their lights dimmed to a soft glow, doors cracked just enough for monitoring, shadows moving occasionally behind the frosted glass.
