On a 7-9, Julie is in a double room with Cara

From the patient charts outside the room, you discover that Julie Paul, yesterday a nurse, today a broken collarbone and arm case, is in the same room with Cara Volsky, yesterday a candy-striper volunteer, today a concussion case.

Cara seems to at best semi-conscious, though her vital signs look strong.

Behind the curtain partitioning the room, you see Julie, in a side-tying hospital smock, lying in bed with an arm cast and straps. There's an intravenous drip in her arm. She looks -- well, you're not sure -- either bored or worried.

"Hello Julie," you say.

"Nurse Bates," Julie says.

"You're not actually on duty," you say, "You were scheduled to be on this shift, but I'd say you have a good excuse."

Julie nods.

You look around at the little side tables by the head of her hospital bed. There's a get-well card from her husband and two bouquets of flowers, as well as a cuddly synthetic-fiber stuffed toy you recognize from the hospital gift shop. Pushy Cat, or something like that.

"Well, at least you'll be at home soon, I expect," you say. "But I wanted to catch you and ask you about something first."

"Nurse Bates?" Julie says, wary of you.

You stroke a finger across your chin, under your lower lip.

"I've been surprised by a number of things happening at this hospital recently," you say. "I'd like to get your opinion."

"Nurse?" she says, surprised at the drift of your question.

"I thought you might know," you tell Julie. "Is there something turning the women working here into lesbians?"

Julie blinks.