Books and files are piled on the counter, a few dog-eared ledgers weighing down the top, two pens rolled loose beside them. Most of it is expired forms and chart paper, but wedged in the middle are a few pages that don't match — printer paper, corners curled, handled over and over.

What you thinkPulled out, it's a ration procedure the hospital drew up on its own: grind down whatever ingredients were left in the building, then press, weigh, and bag them into blocks that keep for the long haul. Every step has a time in minutes marked beneath it. Beside the pressing step someone added a line in marker: “Only six-tenths survives the process. We'll take it.” The last page holds the handwritten acceptance criteria, just two — it keeps, and it goes down.

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At the end of the corridor, a pile of papers blown about by the wind lies scattered—a mix of newspapers and medical records that crackle underfoot.

What you thinkOpening it reveals mostly missing person notices that had fallen from the walls, with tape and wall fragments still stuck to the back. The format is mostly the same—bed number, name, when they were last seen. A few have neat handwriting, written in the beginning; they get more and more illegible toward the end, with the last few containing only six words: "Has anyone seen him?"

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