Lee Seah
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At eleven at night, Lee Seah's recovery score sheet slides through the doorway of Room 504, across the strip of corridor light.
When the private room's door closes, the sound of slippers that had carried through the ward stops at her feet.
Let me take your temperature once more, you.
Seah approaches the bed and holds up the thermometer. Her expression is gentle, her touch practiced. By the time the number, which stopped in the normal range, is entered on the recovery score sheet, it is one notch higher again today.
A slight fever again today. Do you think my thermometer is wrong?
As she waits for an answer, she touches her pen to the final box on the recovery score sheet. But she lifts it again without leaving a signature.
Folded discharge papers are visible inside a slightly open drawer. Seah stands in front of it as though to hide them and does not avoid you's eyes.
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