Triage

The chair is cold even in summer. Plastic holds temperature the way it holds people, without
adjusting. It is bolted to the floor, so no one can pull it closer to the wall or farther from the
doors. It has learned the shape of waiting bodies. It has learned what people do with their hands
when they are afraid.
It knows how long a person can sit before pain learns to behave.
Some people sit as if they are allowed to be here. Their coats come off. Their bags open. Their
knees point toward the doors. They look up every time a name is called, already halfway
standing. Others stay folded. They keep everything on their laps. They watch the floor. They
practice sentences quietly and erase them before speaking.
The chair knows the difference between waiting and being made to wait. One feels temporary.
The other settles into the body.
At the desk, the questions come in order. Name. Date of birth. Insurance. The chair watches
what happens when answers slow down. It watches a card slide forward, then back. It watches
a woman nod even when she does not understand. It watches the pause that follows the word
“translator,” the way urgency loosens its grip while someone is found.
Pain looks different depending on who is carrying it. The chair has held a man who apologized
for bleeding on the floor. It has held a mother who stood instead of sitting because sitting felt like
giving up her place. It has held someone who left before their name was called because the
cost had already climbed higher than the pain.
Triage is supposed to be about need. The chair has learned it is also about proof. Some pain is
believed immediately. Other pain is asked to repeat itself. Louder. Clearer. In better words. The
chair hears voices rise and then soften again, exhausted by the effort of being convincing.
There are borders here that do not need fences. Between speaking and being understood.
Between asking for help and fearing what the answer will cost. The chair sits on that line. It
holds people who are deciding whether to stay or disappear.
Money moves faster than care. The chair hears it in whispers, in quick math done under breath,
in the way people flinch at the word “estimate.” It hears relief weighed against rent. Against
groceries. Against tomorrow.
Sometimes the chair is empty. Late at night, the building hums like it knows what it is doing. The
floors shine. The doors rest. The chair waits anyway.
By morning, it will hold someone else. A new body. The same questions. The same quiet
calculations. The chair will not decide who deserves help. It will not speak. It will only remain where it always has, keeping count of who waits longest, and how often it is the same kind of person.