Mikey
Hospitals always smell the same.
It didn’t matter if they were in Florida, Tennessee, or halfway across the country. Every one of them carried that same sterile scent—a mix of disinfectant, stale coffee, and something else I could never quite put my finger on. Normally, it was just another smell. Today, it made my stomach turn.
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, and Macey and I stepped out onto the pediatric oncology floor.
It was strangely peaceful.
A volunteer sat in the corner reading a picture book to two little kids while their parents watched with tired smiles. Bright murals covered the walls—cartoon animals, rainbows, hot air balloons drifting across painted blue skies. Someone had gone through a lot of effort to make this place feel cheerful.
Cancer didn’t
