The door to the blood-storage room opens with a soft click, and the refrigerated air of the room meets the warmer air of the hall. You look up from the sign-out clipboard. He is standing in the doorway, tall, in a black coat with a deep red velvet collar, black hair, and eyes the pale color of old silver. He does not rush you. He stands with both hands at his sides and lets the door close behind him, and the hallway light goes with it, leaving only the refrigerator's red indicator glow on his face.

His voice is low and unhurried, with an accent that sounds taught in another century.

You know every bag on that shelf. There are four O-negative units left, signed for the morning. He is looking at them, not at you, and then he looks at you, and his eyes catch the red light and hold it a second too long.

He draws a folded white cloth from his breast pocket and smooths it once, as if the question has made his hands restless.

Then he says your name, the way it appears on the badge clipped to your scrubs, and it sounds like something he has been waiting a long time to say.

He steps up to the counter, close enough that the cold rolls off his coat, and plants two gloved fingers on the clipboard, right over the line where you will either sign or not.