I open my eyes. The musketeers are still watching me. Not awkward. Not awkward at all. I figure I may as well be polite. I hold the spoon up to psycho nurse.
I smile. She is unimpressed. I know she's jealous. Harpies love soup.
"I'll be your care-taker for tonight."
The head nurse chimes in to finish psycho nurses' sentence. Nurses arn't capable of individual thought. They rely on a chattering hub of ineptitude and disinformation to make decisions. Natural Selection turns a blind eye. God has them on his dirty pay roll.
"Until then, behave and don't leave your ward. Your visitors are still restricted. We've stored your stuff in another room until you are ready to leave."
Wait, where's my phone.
"We've placed it with your other things."
Oh no you don't you dirty scoundrel. My phone is my personal property. Get fuck'ed.
"You can collect it tomorrow."
I protest. I threaten to call King Louis. I threaten to call D'Artagnan. But I get nowhere. The musketeers walk out together. As one, they are vulnerable. As three, they fear nothing. I finish my soup. I will need the strength. Medical Stalingrad is in dire straits. Every line of communication has been cut. Higher nurse echelons have me sorrounded. Sporadic food drops will not sustain me.
One more night. One more.
I wake up. It is night time. Just before eight o'clock. It is silent. I can hear the nurses scurrying about. Perhaps they are searching for cheese. One of them asks another nurse if she's done the heparin rounds.
"Doing them now."
It is the chirpy, sinister voice of psycho nurse.