The little clack of the clipboard as she lets go of the lever and the metal jaw clamps down on the sheet of paper. The sound of a telephone ringing two and a half times before a nurse picks it up and talks in a quiet, sweet voice. The noise a gurney makes as it's wheeled down the hall, the tired wheels squeaking as it turns a corner. The sound of doorknobs turning, doors opening and closing, the soft step of comfortable shoes, of papers rustling, of fabric moving. The hum of monitors and the consistent beeps of the line. Televisions turning on, heard through doorways and walls, the channels flicking through, pausing on the news, then a movie, then a cartoon. The sounds are all different. The news sound is drawlish and tepid. The movie sound is often quiet, slow, then bursting and musical as the action starts, actor talk, deliver their lines without the mumbling way of the average person. Then, the cartoons have strange sounds, and the voices are strange too, cartoonish, she realizes, and laughs. Her laughs tumble, it's breathy, it's short. Then, she walks on through the hallway, reading through the paper on her clipboard.