“The cabinet cannot remain unsupervised,” Mr. Keene said.
“According to who?” I asked.
He did not smile.
“According to the people responsible for what happens on hospital property.”
Luis from security was leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed.
He looked at the pictures on the table and then away.
Elaine spoke before I could.
“We are not shutting it down,” she said. “We’re formalizing it.”
That word landed almost as badly as the lock.
Formalizing.
As if the original sin of the thing had been its honesty.
The finance woman read from her notes.
The new plan was simple, she said.
Simple is another dangerous word.
Items would be kept in the cabinet, but access would be staff-directed only.
Only recently discharged patients.
Only one clothing set per patient unless approved.
Shoes if medically necessary.
Hygiene kits upon request.
No more off-site bins.
No more leaving items accessible overnight.
No more bus passes without social work approval.
All donations would be screened, counted, and documented.
“We have to preserve the spirit while reducing the risk,” she said.
That was when Luis made a sound in the back of his throat.
Not quite a laugh.
Not quite anything polite.
Mr. Keene looked at him.
“Do you have something to add?”
Luis pushed off the wall.
“Yeah,” he said. “The point of the cabinet was that people didn’t have to ask.”
Silence.
You could hear the fluorescent lights.
Mr. Keene clasped his hands.
“They can still ask.”
Luis looked at the lock.
“Not the same people,” he said.
Nobody wrote that down.
I did.
In my head.
The way you do with sentences you know will matter later.
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