I write this from outside the hospital. It is the thirteenth hour. It appears that there has been an accident, and many people were wounded and injured, so many that beds containing them have spilled out of the emergency rooms and into the recovery wards where I am. There was a lot of noise and things going on, and when finally one of the head doctors came to aid in overseeing the spillage of patients, he looked over the scripts for each of the patients recovering, including myself, and determined whether they were relatively well enough to leave or not.

I was one of those that he said was in well enough state to leave. I stood from the bed just as they were placing another patient in it, bleeding and unconscious. I tugged the children's book about Low from beneath him, and a couple other baubles that I understood belonged to me, including a vase, a thick ring with a signet I don't remember, and a scarf.

Right now I am waiting on the steps outside the hospital for Windaline. Doctor Claret informed me that she had called her to come take me back home. The light from inside the hospital is dim and flickering, and there are yet more patients being brought in. The road is congested with carriages whose motion is only partly monitored, and they crash and bump into each other like buoys in a river, emitting huffing noises and, occasionally, brief sparks from beneath the orbs of their wheels.

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