Why did hospitals always smell funny? And why was it always freezing cold?

At least the elevators were big.

I smoothed down the visitor sticker already curling at the edges from the fuzz on my hoodie. The lady at the front desk had done a pretty solid job masking her surprise that the chick in a Northwestern sweatshirt had actually been on the magic list for Miranda Priestly.

"So. Top floor. Do you think they have you in a secret celebrity medical penthouse?"

I glanced beside me. Miranda rolled her eyes.

"This is precisely why I do not share elevators."

I shrugged, turning back to the array of lights and buttons before me. "Just giving you motivation to work on the levitation and flying aspect of ghosthood."

She sighed, "Why do you always insist on trying my patience?"

It lacked any sting or venom I would've expected in a previous lifetime. The feigned annoyance and witty banter was quickly forming the basis of our new working relationship.

"Figured you could use a distraction with everything going on," I admitted, trying too hard to sound nonchalant about it, looking down at my tennis shoes.

It was the truth. Well, mostly. The honest reality was all I had were jokes and deflections to stop myself from thinking about all of this too much and freaking out. Miranda's life was on the line. And the biggest truth of all was that, if she didn't take her own life, someone tried to take it for her.

Murder. A very scary word. We had avoided saying it out loud.

"Indeed. You never fail to be distracting," she stated, overly sweet and syrupy. Her gala voice, to accentuate the sarcasm.

I smirked, still staring at the closed doors, my response immediate, "Wouldn't want to disappoint."

Disappointment. It had slipped out by accident. Another scary word for the both of us, for very different reasons. But questioning her unique recommendation letter was a task for later, if even needed. I doubt she noticed my flounder, especially if I was her greatest disappointment.

The elevator dinged as we reached what felt like the millionth floor. Miranda and I both stepped forward, and I shivered as our forms merged and overlapped, nearly tripping from the metal box into the hallway from the sudden freezing sensation.

Before I could chastise my new permanent attachment that maybe the solidly human individual should always go first, I noticed a nurse was shooting me a look over her station counter.

You'd think the hospital would be used to seeing lots of clumsy people, at least at the ER.

Flashing a goofy grin and awkwardly shuffling down the hall, I tried to follow the signs for the room number I had received in the lobby.

"Graceful."

I huffed back, "Hey, Beetlejuice, I need to go first or else people will wonder what I'm doing."

"How will you stop them from questioning all your other absurd behaviors?" Miranda mused airily beside me.

"Such as?"

"You snore."

My new roommate was feisty.

"Tons of people snore," I whispered fiercely before shooting another passing nurse a polite smile.

"Not at that frequency."

I snorted as I checked the passing room numbers, "I was stressed last night, guess who's fault that was."

Before she could deal out another retort, I spotted our target and paused before the closed door. Suddenly, all the mirth felt sucked out of my lungs.

This was it.

Before I could be accused of moving too slow, I reached out for the door handle, looking hesitantly to Miranda.

She nodded, firm and short, once.

I pushed the portal open.

As far as rooms went, it was a pretty standard fair. As much as I had teased on the way over about gold plated IV bags, it would seem the rich got the same set up as the rest of us. In the very least, maybe it had guaranteed she wouldn't be sharing a room.

'She' being the body. It was so difficult to understand I was looking at Miranda lying in that bed, especially after looking at her face and talking to her all morning.

A mask connected to a tube concealed her face now, and the skin that was left uncovered was pale. No foundation, no eyeshadow. Her hair was flat, withered from neglect and lack of product against the sterile fabric of the hospital pillow. Her frame looked frail in the gown draped over her before she disappeared behind still overly crisp bedsheets.

Whatever was lying here was more a stoic statue adorning a stone sarcophagus, lifeless artwork more than a person. This was the phantom devoid of life, the eerie shadow that did not properly align with the woman I knew. This was the ghost.

The heavy silence was only broken by small beeps and the occasional sigh of the ventilator. Life support.

The reality of what we were dealing with was now very apparent.

"I've never seen you so still," I murmured, dumbfounded.

Miranda's attention, however, was focused on the window across the room, at the vases of flowers and cards lining the ledge and the top of the AC unit.

Her voice was quiet when she commented, "The girls have been here."

I swallowed, trying to refocus. We weren't here for me to get all emotional.

After closing the door behind us, I looked down at the foot of the bed where every TV hospital drama told me a patient's medical chart should be. It wasn't there. Bummer.

The computer screen was small and clearly connected to Miranda's body. Just a monitor.

A folder sitting on the little tray by the bed caught my eye. Bingo. Time to be sneaky before a nurse showed up.

I opened the file and started attempting to translate the scrawled hieroglyphs on multiple charts and pages. Seriously, it was almost 2008, they couldn't put this stuff on a computer so I could actually read it?

"Your charts say everything seems fine. At least from what I can piece together without a medical degree," I mumbled out loud, flipping back to when she was first admitted, "I guess they've helped you detox whatever it is they think you OD'ed on. They just can't explain why you're, well, not awake."

When there was no response, I looked up to find Miranda still staring intently at the windowsill, now standing beside it. She was trying to pick up a card, but her fingers passed helplessly through it. I heard her huff in frustration, but she showed no signs of stopping.

The folder was dropped back on the table. I gently stepped beside her and shot her a small smile as I gingerly picked up the card. I made sure to keep my arms low as I opened it so she could see the contents.

I read aloud, "'Dear Momsie, please get better soon. Love, Your Bobbsies. P.S. Patricia says hi,'" I turned the paper to show her the sea of doodles as I surmised, "They must have taken the dog to their dad's."

Miranda smiled.

It was tiny. If you didn't know her, you wouldn't have noticed, especially if you only saw the fake socialite smile she flashed at parties. This was subtle, genuine, and a little sad. A rarity as brilliant as the woman's face it graced.

I was sure she could probably hear my heart fumble and skip a beat.

She blinked away watery eyes, craning her head, and finally turning away from the card.

"Well?"

"The good news is you're not dying," I sighed, nodding towards the folder, "The bad news is there's not much that explains what happened beyond what's in the papers."

She barely breathed a hum in recognition of my words. Two silent steps forward brought her to the foot of her bed. Her eyes scanned the empty husk before her.

I had seen her analyze outfits, inspect models, review photographs, and all but devour the Book. Again, it was in the details. The tiniest wrinkle in the corner of her eyes, the slightest pause of breath. She loved it, and performing her life's work softened the rough edges others couldn't see past.

There was none of that here. Nothing. Bitter and empty nothingness as she stared at her still, hollow body.

"Is it odd being here?" I asked softly as I set the card back on the windowsill.

Her chin lifted slightly, and her eyes remained pointed downwards at the bed. The inhale was slow.

Then she turned to me and sternly stated, "It's unnecessary, if there's nothing else here. What's our next course of action?"

I recognized the tone.

Is there anything else I can do?

Your job.

I adjusted the strap of my messenger bag as I returned to business.

"If you left me on your visitation list, I'm assuming you didn't change the locks to the townhouse?" I questioned, digging out my ring of keys with a jingle.

Anyone else would've bought the poker face she held firmly in place.

"Perhaps," she stated evenly, crossing her arms.

Unbelievable.

I shook my head. "You're shockingly trusting of an employee that quit."

Her eyes narrowed as she countered, "If you quit, why hold on to the key?"

Touché. I'd never admit I just couldn't bring myself to throw it away.

Instead I muttered as I started to walk to the door, "To assist the devil through the afterlife, apparently."