Cook County Hospital

They wait more than seven hours counting the minutes, the seconds until a doctor pokes his head through the thin white curtain just to ask them two questions and leave. They are left confused, waiting two more hours until a nurse remembers they exist, stabs them with needles and leaves.

Again they wait.

The elderly woman in the corner bed is there with her son. She has low blood pressure and is weak. They’ve been waiting since three. She doesn’t speak English.

The woman two beds from her has been poked three times, each time filling a thin beaker with blood. In Mexico you use two names and her daughters used the two to fill out the paperwork — Charro-Gomez — but the lab only has Gomez and they say they can’t run the blood because the names don’t match. “Me han picado tantas veces,” she complains quietly. “Ya me han de hacer un hoyo.” Her daughter protests but can’t avoid the fourth poke.

The inmate who came in escorted by two fat guards yells out in pain. They sit in front of him enjoying a Subway footlong. They laugh. He lies there. His legs chained and cuffed to the gurney. He wants pain meds for an ache in his abdomen but when the doctor asks him to point to where it hurts he’s unsure of where.

The man whose face is hidden by the white curtain was brought in by his wife. He was drinking all day without one sip of water or a bite to eat. He slurs over his words as his two grown children and wife sit beside him, the look of hopelessness and disappointment easily read on their faces.

Over the inmate’s yells of pain is the low voice of the doctor who stands behind a curtain telling a man his leg bone is too far gone to save. Some of it is dead and he’ll have to amputate. He waited too long to see a doctor. So the doctor cleans the infected area and sets a date for surgery. The stench of rotted leg circles the room.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours.

Again they wait.