It’s quiet first thing in the morning, when Otto comes in to work. The emergency cases are still there, and the doctors on call, but the appointments haven’t started and most of the people he sees are wearing maintenance brown. Now and again Abel and Christa walk by with their happy little waves.

Neither of them say anything, first thing in the morning. As if they know better than to break the silence.

Otto thinks sometimes, when he thinks of it at all, that the mornings would be the perfect time to catch up on his reading or his newspaper comics, or perhaps something on the radio. But he never remembers to take it in and when he remembers to take it in he never remembers to open it or turn it on and after a while he forgets the idea anyway.

The silence is comforting. It reassures him that everything’s all right because, after all, he works in a hospital. Noise means that someone is in pain, that someone is dying. Otto worked in a car assembly factory before this, and silence meant that something was wrong. He prefers it this way, tell the truth.

Blondie’s nails go clack-clack on the floor. It’s a far cry from the pitter patter of little feet, or even sanity-covered shoes, but at least he know where the silly mutt is. Blondie’s a good dog. Knows not to bark.

In the quiet hours of the morning he can see the ghost ambulance pull up to the spot, and he doesn’t take notice anymore. Sometimes it even surprises him that the car doesn’t disgorge its cargo of paramedics and patients like the rest of them.

First thing in the morning Otto opens the blinds and lets the light come in from the front windows, as much as he can. Then he leans back and closes his eyes in the sunshine.