Elián;
For two weeks, every morning has started the same way. A machine that doesn't stop crying, a nurse's shoes squeaking past the door, and a ceiling tile with stains in shapes I've memorised.
So, the first thing I notice today is the quiet.
No beeping, no hissing... No footsteps in the corridor at five in the morning. Just a thin grey light coming through a curtain with a hole in it, and somewhere downstairs, very faintly, I can hear muffled conversations and the clatter of pots and pans.
I lie still and look at the ceiling. It's spotless and white. Someone has stuck a few glow-in-the-dark stars along the edge. Most of them have lost their glow, and one is hanging on by a corner.
This is the spare room. Zack's boxes are stacked against the far wall, about...thirty of them, labelled in marker pens. COMICS. OLD GAMES. DO NOT OPEN (THIS MEANS YOU, ZEPH). The bed is a real bed, soft and a bit too short, with a duvet that smells like fabric softener.
