Abstract
Winter comes hard in Minnesota. In fact, it's fixing to snow right now. I can tell by the color of the sky; it's just as gray as the cement parking lot. Most of what I can see out of this window is parking lot, but if I stoop a bit, I can just make out a wedge of sky cracked by dead tree branches. It's good to be able to see any sky at all. This is one of the few rooms that even has a window—the emergency department kitchen. On the table in front of me is a sandwich. It sits in solitary splendor on a Styrofoam plate. Two slices of Wonder bread, a slice of turkey breast thin enough to read an ECG through, and a layer of French's yellow mustard that may very well have been spray-painted on. This is a sandwich that was birthed not in a warm, honest, cinnamon-smelling kitchen, but rather on a sterile conveyor belt you might find an airplane entrée trundling morosely down.
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