The Green Light at the End of the Hall

The problem with hospitals wasn't the pain, or the food, or the distinct smell of antiseptic that burned the back of your throat like cheap vodka. The problem, Leo Varras decided as he stared at the ceiling tiles of Room 402, was the time.

Time didn't pass in St. Jude’s University Hospital. It pooled. It dripped, thick and viscous, from the IV bag stand. It stagnated in the corners of the room where the dust bunnies gathered.

Leo shifted his leg, currently encased in a bulky cast and elevated on a sling, and hissed through his teeth. A shattered tibia and fibula—the result of a bike messenger ignoring a red light and T-boning him at an intersection—had cost him his final semester architecture review. His cohort was currently building models of sustainable urban housing. Leo was building a tower of empty Jell-O cups on his bedside table.

"You look like you're plotting a murder," Nurse Brenda said, breezing in to check his vitals.

"Just a prison break," Leo muttered. "Do you think I could rappel out the window using catheter tubes?"

"I think you’d snap your other leg and I’d have to do double the paperwork," Brenda said, unbothered. She tossed a book onto his lap. "Volunteer cart came by while you were brooding. I grabbed the only thing that didn't look like a bodice-ripper or a religious pamphlet."

Leo picked it up. A paperback copy of *The Great Gatsby*. The cover was bent, the spine cracked and held together by yellowing tape.

"Thanks, Brenda. Nothing cheers a guy up like the emptiness of the American Dream."

She patted his good foot. "Read, Leo. Stop staring at the university. It’s torture."

She was right. Through the large window, Leo could see the sprawling campus of St. Jude’s University just across the street. It was raining—classic November weather—and the streetlights reflected off the wet pavement in streaks of gold and red. He could see students running to class, huddled under umbrellas. He could practically smell the coffee from the campus grounds. It was a world away, separated by a pane of glass and three stories of concrete.

Leo sighed and opened the book. He’d read it in high school, like everyone else. He flipped through the pages, the smell of old paper warding off the scent of bleach for a moment.

He stopped on page 50.

There was ink in the margins. Blue ballpoint pen, looping and messy.

* If you're dying of boredom, text me. I know where they keep the good Jell-O.*

Below the message was a phone number.

Leo stared at it. It was obviously old graffiti. The person was probably long gone, discharged and living a happy, leg-functional life. But the boredom was a physical weight on his chest.

He grabbed his phone. His fingers hovered over the screen. It was pathetic. It was desperate.

He typed.

* The Jell-O here tastes like sadness and red dye 40.*

He hit send before he could think about how stupid it was. He tossed the phone onto the mattress and opened the book again, trying to focus on Nick Carraway’s narration.

* Buzz.*

Leo jumped. He snatched the phone back.

**Unknown Number:** *Ah, you got the strawberry. Rookie mistake. You have to ask for the lime. It tastes like sadness and citrus, which is marginally better.*

Leo blinked. A laugh, rusty and unused, bubbled up in his throat.

**Leo:** *Who is this? The ghost of F. Scott Fitzgerald?*

**Unknown Number:** *Close. Just a fellow inmate. I’m in the West Wing. You?*

**Leo:** *East Wing. Orthopedics. Room 402. Currently serving a life sentence for a bike accident.*

**Unknown Number:** *Ouch. I’m a frequent flyer here. I treat St. Jude’s like a twisted Airbnb. The room service is terrible, but the gowns are breezy.*

**Leo:** *I’m Leo. Or, considering the book, you can call me Nick.*

**Unknown Number:** *Nice to meet you, Nick. I’m Gatsby. I’d invite you to a party, but the nurses confiscated my gin.*

Leo smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled in six days. He looked out the window at the rain-soaked campus, but for once, he wasn't looking at what he was missing. He was looking at the phone.

**Leo:** *So, Gatsby. Tell me about this lime Jell-O.*