The magazine is open to page 47 again.

I work swing shift at the urgent care. My last patient last night was a kid — 11:14 checkout. Sprained wrist.

Every night I clear the waiting room. Magazines go into recycling.

The cleaning crew brings new stock at four, sealed in plastic.

I came back at noon. Same magazine. Same chair 12. Page 47.

The bin from last night was empty. Smelled like bleach. The new stack was still sealed.

I walked over. The vinyl was warm. The paper crackled under my thumb.

The page is a dental ad. A boy smiling. The caption says Mason, age 7.

That was my patient's name. He never came back in.

I don't want to know what page 48 says.