I wake to voices in the corridor.
Low. Male. The particular quality of a conversation being kept quiet not because it is calm but because the people having it have decided that quiet is necessary. I lie still for a moment and I listen and I cannot make out the words but I can make out the tone — tight, controlled, the tone of something that has just happened and is being managed.
I sit up.
My body registers the movement with the usual comprehensive complaint — the ache is still there, muted but present, a full body reminder of two nights ago in the bush. I ignore it. I have been ignoring it for two days. I push the blanket back and I put my feet on the floor and I go to the door.
I open it.
The corridor is not empty.
