Last Friday morning well before dawn, the tinkling sound of vials carried by a dark form roused me from my morphine-induced slumber. He flipped on the switch over the sink, and the soft glow offered enough light for me to notice two things. First, the man who entered wore a cheerful white smile on a dark face. And second, Gary, my husband, lay exactly as he had been when I fell asleep—curled at my feet on the vinyl “recliner” where he’d camped since my arrival.

I returned the stranger’s smile. He scanned my armband for the UPC code bearing my name and birth date, but he asked my name just to be sure.

“Sandra Glahn,” I said. I stared at the so-called bed where my husband lay for a second night while the pleasant stranger wrapped a tourniquet around my arm and slid in a needle. I considered the overrated Hollywood brand of good-times love and pointed to my husband. “See that right there? That’s love,” I said.

Gary’s rhythmic breathing changed slightly. Without opening his eyes, he turned over, his back now toward me. Then he eased into his former rhythm.

“Yeah. Turns over and gives you his back,” the man said. His tone sounded affirming, but his words seemed to suggest my husband’s change in body language signaled disloyalty. Was the man mocking me? Before I could ask what he meant, he clarified: “That’s the sleep of security. He doesn’t have to face you. He can turn over and give you his back, and you both know he ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“You a poet?” I asked. He seemed wise for 4 a.m. thinking.

“I try to be.” He flashed me another smile, flicked the switch, and disappeared into the night.