Akash Mallady

Her right hand trembled over the bedside phone. In her left hand was a laminated menu, worn at the corners, like her weathered hands. The cardiac acute care room was dimly lit, with sunlight peeking through the blinds.

I knocked softly on the doorframe. “I’m Akash,” I said, “a volunteer. May I take a seat?”

“My name is Kate,” she said, as her eyebrows drew together. She then turned back to the phone, as if she were waiting for the numbers to rearrange themselves into a pattern she recognized.

“May I help you order?” I asked.