Chapter 57 · for subscribers
The machine had printed numbers for the morning clinic since the year the ward was built, and it had been switched off at the wall every night for fifty years. The ticket on the bench read 15. There was nobody within twenty metres of it to have drawn it, the tea was still warm enough to have a skin and not a scum, and the shutter on the glass hatch had been down since eight the previous evening.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.