Then, inside, the odour of the institutional cleaner, or the smell of people in the throes of recovery or impending death. There was no distinction in...this place. Everything smelled the same. The cafeteria menu would not change, regardless of whether the diner was the healer or the healed, the sick or the well, the severely hurt or the hypochondriac."Sean, I know you're still no finer off now than when my son passed on," the old woman offered in a tremulous monotone."Passed on?" the young man. “I made it for you, so take it,” she said, holding out the container after she’d released him.Her boyfriend’s eyes lit up as he accepted the previous night’s leftovers. “I was wondering why you made so much. Thanks, Alaina.”He really liked my cooking. She smiled and nestled in under his right arm as they approached the door. Glancing to her right, she spotted the back of her mom’s head leaning against the couch. Mom was even more tired than I thought. I guess not even she can escape being. More

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