Closed for five months, room 217 has its light on

'Merche, 217 has its light on. Have you put someone in there?' '217's been closed since March, Ana. Since Don Rafael.' 'Well, someone's inside.' 'Have you knocked?' 'I've done two rounds now, hearing the telly down low.'

Ana Correal, twenty-four years of night shifts at the Zamora Provincial Hospital, takes the master key and pushes the handle down with both hands. Room 217 has the bedside lamp on, the bed turned back, and a woman asleep on top of the covers, a wool overcoat folded at her feet.

'Elena.' Don Rafael Espinosa's widow opens her eyes and sits up slowly, like someone who has spent months rehearsing standing up in the dark. 'I can't sleep at home. Here I can. I come at eleven and leave at six. Don't tell anyone.' 'How long?' 'Five months.' Ana looks down the corridor, the ceiling camera switched off. She shuts the door, turns off the lamp and slides the bolt from inside. 'I'll be back at six with a coffee. Don't tell Merche I woke you.'