3:47 p.m.
There are four transporters that I know of. Dave. Clark. Paul. Sam. They don't work too much on our floor because we are all pretty mobile, ...you know when we want to be. We pancake occasionally. When we need to be taken to another part of the hospital they wheel us over there. They also act as pseudo babysitters. I don't mind it too much.
They wear tan scrubs and can be found talking about their "side hustles" relentlessly.
Today I saw one I've never seen before. He interrupted group therapy to take Hannah (probably someone's mom #3)to physical therapy. Hannah drove her car into a solid concrete wall of a parking garage two months ago. She's rehabbing her left leg and four cracked ribs.

He was pretty unreadable. He was not animated in anyway. In fact he was pretty stiff and awkward. I'm going to go ahead and diagnose him with social anxiety.
But, his eyes were droving around madly. They were either gray or light blue, I couldn't tell. They were bright and looked like the only fully charged part of his body.He helped Hannah into the wheelchair, tucking in a thermal blanket under her thighs. Dr. Trudeau bent down whispering something to her and pushed an envelope into her hands.
I think he could feel me staring. He looked up at me.
Not politely or carefully but purposely.
He started to look at me so closely that I think he could see the deep cavities in my chest.
The ones that can only come from trying to dig something out of you.
Could he see the cells under my fingernails?
I think he did.
I think he could smell the sedatives leeching out of my skin and could hear my thoughts agitated and burrowing deeper down into the folds of my brain.
I saw a muscle spasm in is neck but his eyes were still peeling me back.
I didn't feel self conscious. He didn't look back at me with that look. The one that says "I'm not sad like you but I'm sorry you are. "
I wanted him to keep looking at me.
Dr.Trudeau squeezed Hannah's hands in his and then lifted up the wheelchair brake.
We stopped looking at each other.