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“My phone is on silent. Sorry, po.”

“Anak, please, please answer your phone, siggi? I know I worry a lot, but I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

The guilt sank back in, and though she couldn’t see me, I nodded anyway. “Siggi, po.”

Aprilette once told our mom she needs to stop watching the news and real-life stories about kidnappings. She countered my Atè saying that she’s just trying to figure out kidnappers’ tactics so she could teach us how to avoid them. While Aprilette has a point, I don’t like worrying our mom.

After my mom hung up, I hurried through the entrance, getting an irritated glance at the head nurse Grace.

“Are we getting any closer?” the woman asks, pulling me back to what I’m supposed to do.

“Um...” I cringe saying this word. It’s my default response whenever I don’t know the answer to a question a teacher asks me on the spot.

The woman staples her lips into a thin line. The only sounds between us are the squeaks from our shoes as we speed-walk through the halls. Other volunteers pass by me, laughing and talking about something only they understand. It reminds me of P.E. freshman and sophomore year, when everyone had someone to run or play basketball with. Meanwhile, I ran around the track by myself, trailing behind everyone else. Others glanced and snickered at me because I was too slow. I hung my head down the whole exercise. Now, I feel like hanging down my head, but I have to lead this woman to a room I still can’t find.

“Maybe we should ask,” the woman says. She forces a smile that fissures her face. Before I can respond, she waves to a nurse. “Excuse me? Where is the family waiting room?”

He answers, presenting his directions with hand movements. The woman smiles, a genuine one, and thanks him. She marches in front of me, and I follow her like she’s the one leading me to the family waiting room. This is so embarrassing, I could cry.

In less than a minute we find the waiting room. The woman sits down in one of the grey-cushioned chairs lined against the wall, framed photographs of forests and lakes hanging above them. If I zoom in any closer, I can feel like I’m there, running my hand along the tree’s bark, the carvings hard and rough against my skin. There’s light in the photograph, but it’s from the sun, which, unlike the ones in the hospital, can shine on me, soak every inch of my body with heat. Since there’s no nearby window, one that’ll let me gaze into the world, this framed photo is the closest I can get to escaping.

Crossing her arms over her chest and one leg over the other, she looks at the door like she can’t stand looking at me anymore. I swallow a lump of embarrassment and head back to the front of the hospital. On the way there, one of the other volunteers transports a patient in a wheelchair through the halls. He thanks her for all of her help and kindness. Considering I’ve received no words of gratitude from anyone I’ve helped, I’m clearly the biggest failure here.

For the next hour, I try other tasks. I’m still cleaning the monitors and cuffs with disinfectant wipes by the time everyone else leaves the room. One nurse enters and, with a clenched jawline, tells me he’ll clean the rest, and assigns me to transport patients in wheelchairs out of the building. I do as I’m told but struggle to find the exit, causing the patients in wheelchairs to say “It’s okay” in a voice that suggests it clearly isn’t. Other nurses take over and transport them out. I just stand there watching as other volunteers pass by maneuvering patients in wheelchairs.

As I wait for another visitor, the receptionist clacks away at her computer. I suddenly miss my laptop, wishing to edit photos simply for fun. At first, volunteering for three months sounded short, like something I can easily handle. But now, I wish those three months would pass by. My eyes float to the walls, the light hitting them with a beam of white, exposing faded paint that grabs my attention. This place has a long history of saving lives, that much I can appreciate.

Grace comes from the other side of the hall and, all of a sudden, stops a good distance away from me, her arms crossing over her chest like crossbones beneath a skull. My body stiffens. Is she going to watch after me? Through the doors, a couple walks in, holding heart-shaped balloons with Get well soon! etched across the front in white letters. Luckily, they look friendly. Relief settles in my chest as I approach them and ask—

“Eliza, can you help that couple over there?” Grace asks Eliza right as she arrives, though judging by her tone, firm and deep, it sounds more like an order than a question.

I know which couple she’s referring to, but that doesn’t stop me from looking around for others nearby. As Eliza asks the couple what she can help them with, she confirms what I already knew. My shoulders slump. The couple trails behind her, the ceiling lights glinting across their balloons, drowning the Get well soon! message in a white moon.

As I watch Eliza and the couple turn right into the hallway, I think, No fair, I didn’t even get a chance. The path leading to the waiting room is still fresh in my mind. I could’ve redeemed myself.

“Come with me, Ellen,” Grace says.

“It’s Emilyn,” I say quietly and politely, but she’s already leading me to the designated location.

Along the way, nurses and doctors walk through the halls. Other volunteers stroll with each other, laughter bubbling between them. My eyes flicker to each side, and my lips wither into a frown. Only one person is technically walking with me, and she’s in front.

Grace leads me to a mini kitchen soaked in white light. There’s a fridge against the wall, matching grey cabinets and drawers, and a circular table surrounded by chairs. On top of the counter sits a water jug with a tap, a stack of paper cups towering beside it. Strangely enough I feel comforted by all the grey coordination. There are no smiling faces to remind me how alone and useless I am in this place.

She grabs a paper cup and demonstrates how to pour water from the jug, like I’m so incompetent I need simple directions for a simple task.

“From now on, ask all guests in the waiting area if they would like any water, then come back here and get as many cups as they request,” Grace says, handing me the cup. “It’s the easiest job here.”

Chapter Nine

Even though my blinds are closed, white strips saturated with yellow light, I still glance over, imagining how the outside is framed in my window, how much of the sun is soaking the trees and houses. After spending half an hour defining SAT vocabulary words with Aprilette, I just want to return to Star Lakes, and take the photo that should’ve been taken yesterday.

“How can you not remember what insipid means, Emi?” Aprilette says. “You know -in means not, right?”

Doesn’t mean I know the definition of -sipid. Instead, I say, “Right.”

I wish I could tell Aprilette what I’m thinking. She used to comfort me whenever I told her a teacher put me on the spot, or when other people snickered at my answers. When she entered college, though, she was too busy to listen. And when I did confide in her, she’d point out everything I did wrong.

“And -sipid means having flavor.”