A mental health patient on a floor reserved for the elite’s new hips and knees; well, he wasn’t welcome, to say the least. They build a wall of nurses; wary of aggression, of bother—and put unsettling eyes on him while he wanders the night. He speaks an endless monologue; and engaging is exhausting, talking about scorpions and spiders in Arizona. That was on me, I’d shared and told a story because I liked him. A piece of Mom’s banana bread and another story about a real WWII Flying Tiger that I’d known had calmed him, and he claimed I’d saved his life, coming on shift that night.