Greenhouse Above the Ambulance Bay

At two a.m. the hospital roof sweats glass. Tomatoes hang like small red lanterns above the sirens. Steam climbs from vents and braids with moonlight. A nurse in blue clogs waters basil with a paper cup.

Below, stretchers roll like muted thunder. Up here, bees sleep in their cedar box, dreaming pollen while monitors blink through skylights, green numerals pulsing against the leaves.

She pinches mint and rubs it between her fingers; the scent opens a country no map keeps. For one breath, every hallway turns to river grass, every closed door loosens its jaw.

Dawn arrives in stainless steel and peach. Helicopter blades test the morning like tuning forks. She pockets one warm tomato for the long shift, and the roof keeps growing over the city’s fear.