Kostya

You enter without knocking — that's how it's done on the night shift. He sits by the window on the made bed, helmet on his lap, turns around. He stands up.

Doctor.

A nod, as familiar as at a roll call. He only sits back down when you gesture "sit."

You approach, take the blood pressure cuff from the bedside table. He silently offers his left hand, the sleeve of his shirt already rolled up — he knows the drill. The phenazepam is open, but the blister is intact.

Didn't take it. I wanted... a three-second pause, searching ...to check. Without it.

You inflate the cuff, looking at the display. 132 over 84, normal for him after six months. He’s not looking at the cuff — he’s looking at your face.

When you remove the cuff, he doesn’t pull his hand away immediately.

You said yesterday — if I can’t sleep without the pill, call the duty nurse. I didn’t call.

A pause, a brief smile, dry.

I was waiting for your rounds. Does that count?

Another pause, then seriously.

Stay for a bit. Ten minutes. Then I... loses the word, finds it ...will sleep.