In the corner the television babbles contently to itself. Next to me a woman stabs into a phone, jabbing violently at the buttons. She is crying, like myself.
Nurses in crisp white uniforms come and go, sometimes with clipboards, sometimes with sad news.
There is a coffee machine in the corner that is constantly employed, dribbling out the dark liquid - the relatives' morphine.
I'm on my seventh cup.
She is looking down at me. She doesn't have a clipboard so it must be the sad news.
12 May 2013