A few days ago:
The faint hum of the fluorescent light buzzed above the nurse station as Silas stood behind the counter. His posture was straight, sleeves perfectly aligned at the wrist, hands covered with white gloves. The station was deserted, a clear display of his colleagues' contempt. The moment he had stepped past the threshold, the nurses and secretaries had moved out, busying themselves with non-existent work in other places. The isolation had deepened over these past weeks, yet to Silas, a germophobe, it was a relief, almost a luxury.
Silas flipped through the clipboard. He was writing a note on a new patient who had been assigned to him recently. The woman was a complicated case: an elderly patient with a brain tumour, advanced enough to press against functional brain sections. Surgery was risky. Her age, her weak heart, and her diabetes made general anesthesia and long hours of surgery nearly a death sentence.
