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This room has probably seen as much pain as anywhere I’ve ever been. I’ve only been here a few hours and I’m reeling. Seizures. Shots fired. Ghastly repetition. No brain activity. Waiting for the relatives to make a decision. The alcohol, the drugs, the alcohol again.

Yet there’s a terrible brittle forced jollity. Incessant blaring blither from Fox’s newcasters. Democrats threaten in the upcoming election. You must reach out to the clergy, reach out to the youth - otherwise, the Iraqi insurgents win. A jigsaw picture of an eagle in flight fills a small round table. A succession of pain-wracked people sit at it to distract themselves for a few minutes placing pieces. I’m fairly sure at least one piece of the edge is missing. Kids play “Sorry!” and one little girl draws stern words for accidentally (or accidentally-on-purpose, I can’t tell) dropping the cards.

A hugely round young woman brings chocolate to the woman who tottered to the remotest corner and sat there sobbing quietly. A strange illusion: unless I’m looking at the young woman, it sounds as if she’s continually on the verge of tears. When I watch her speak, in soothing tones, of care options for those who simply cannot pay, the illusion is dispelled. “HCI” stands for “Hospital Care for the Indigent.”

“And I’ll always have chocolate,” the young woman winds up her spiel. “We all need a little something to get us through, and sometimes chocolate is the best thing going.”

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