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Show 88 She is talking with me through a smile of very white teeth and her red hair is wildly curly, refusing to stay in its tortoise-shell clip at the back of her neck, preferring instead to escape it and wander in thick tangles across her shoulders, down her back, free. "My name is Faith," she is saying, mentioning something about being a nurse practitioner of sorts. I do not recognize her job title. But she is smiling and gesturing with thin hands and long fingers that could belong to a pianist, saying things that make me understand that she while she works for the hospital, she really works for me, the patient. For some reason, I believe her. "Used to be an ICU nurse," she is saying, confiding that she prefers talking with people instead. She is wearing civilian clothes. No scmbs. No white coat. I am to understand that she is the nursing version of a shrink. I am somehow not insulted by her walking into my room and beginning this random and animated conversation with me. "I come referred," she is saying, "by some nurses who care about you." These nurses apparently get to remain anonymous not only to me, though I do have my suspects, |