A man shuffles down one of the many hospital hallways, his hospital gown swishing around his ankles as he pushes a wheelchair in which another, slightly younger man sits. Neither speaks nor gives any indication that he knows the other is there, and perhaps the man in the wheelchair truly thinks himself alone. The silence is oppressive, and there is a heavy sense of anxiety hanging in the air.
The men continue their journey as though they were mute until the younger man cocks his head and says, in a voice rough with disuse,
"John's coming to visit today. He always visits on Saturday at eleven o'clock."
"Yesterday was Saturday, and it's six thirty now," the older man responds gently, and though his voice is thick with sorrow, tears trickle down his thin cheeks and his white-knuckled hands shake where they clutch the chair, his gait never falters.
Mutual hush falls around them again as they make their way down the hallway, back to their room.