A smell wakes me. At first, I cannot remember where I am. A mattress on the floor of an unfurnished apartment. Lights from passing cars carve arcs across the popcorn ceiling. Have I vomited?

My one-year-old son is tangled somewhere in the sea of sheets. I slip about in my sweat. Or is it milk? Rotten milk that fell from my child’s open mouth, lost in a groove and smelling sweet.

I know this smell. It’s nothing like that. It is a smell from years ago. A trauma ICU. A mix of respiratory secretions and chlorhexidine mouth wash.

My first patient out of nursing school, a boy barely old enough to be treated in an adult ICU. Intubated and restrained, a smear of face under plastic and tubes. Hardly human.

Using a badge and a password, I access a robotic chest of drawers with hundreds of cubicles that disseminate medications. Fifteen drawer simultaneously spring to life. Tiny cups of liquid that resemble the complementary single serving jam containers at the chain restaurants lining interstate 85, to be inserted into nasal tubes, pre-loaded syringes for screwing into IV ports, glass vials for drawing up single doses of intramuscular injections. A horror show of wizardry designed to bypass human barrier systems.

My son swims to me across the expanse of mattress. He paws at my body, a kitten kneading for his milk. His sleep is sure.

The smell of death curdles in my chest.