Excerpt from Small Rain by Garth Greenwell, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

My seat was still free, far from the entrance to the ward and facing the sad aquarium. I had a book with me and tried to read, but I was distracted by discomfort—hunching over eased my stomach but aggravated my back, which nothing could soothe, not standing or sitting or walking to the little alcove with vending machines—and also by the noise and shuffle of the people around me, the drama of the place. Shortly after I sat down again there was a bit of commotion, a security guard appeared in front of the doors leading to the main hospital, not far from where I sat, and turned away anyone who tried to pass from either side, patient or staff, saying they had to walk outside to another entrance, that the ER was on lockdown. A man entered shortly after, cuffed at the hands and feet and with a chain around his waist, an elaborate restraint, and further restrained by two guards, one at each side. A kind of shudder went through the room, the noise quieted as people looked and quickly looked away, then looked again, as I did. The guards weren't hospital employees, they had guns strapped to their waists, they wore uniforms from the state prison. The man between them was a convict out of central casting, huge with fat and muscle, maybe 6ʹ5ʺ with a shaved head and tattoos up both arms. We all watched as he shuffled to the registration desk and then to a seat; the guards removed the tape and social distancing signs to sit on either side of him. He kept his eyes on the floor, looking at no one. He didn't wait long, he must have been given priority, almost immediately he was on his feet again for the triage nurse and didn't reappear. There was something terrible about watching the people around me, terrible and irresistible, I wanted to see into their lives but I had no right to; it was an intrusion, like looking into the lit windows of houses at night, which is something else I can't resist, when L and I take walks through the neighborhood after dark my eyes are drawn to every lit pane. Most of the people in the waiting room were like windows left dark, blank or withdrawn, scrolling on their phones or staring into space.

A nurse brought a man into the room from the ward, and stationed him in a corner of the area where I sat, a spot left free of seats to accommodate wheelchairs. Immediately he started talking, not to anyone in particular but not to himself, either. I can't stay here, he said, I can't wait so long, I need my wife, he began saying, please, I need my wife. The hospital's policy was that adult patients should come alone, it was a precaution against the virus, but exceptions were made for those needing assistance, you could call and make your case, surely they would have allowed his wife to come. He had begun moving his head in a strange, distressed way, throwing it back and then rolling it from left to right, Please, he said, his mask had slipped beneath his nose but he didn't replace it, please, I need my wife, I want to call my wife. I felt a tension I've grown familiar with, between desire to help and inhibition, I've felt it all my life; there's a kind of moral paralysis I sometimes feel, a moral weakness I mean, one stands by and so is culpable. Maybe if it weren't for the pandemic I would have offered him my phone; in general I felt like my social instincts, my sense of sociality, my humanness I want to say had atrophied in lockdown. For months I had hardly left my house, I had touched no one but L. We were forgetting how to be with one another in physical space, I thought, how to be creatures living with other creatures, the long transition to virtuality had been sped up by the virus. But then I remembered the student parties, the protests and the president's rallies, I shouldn't generalize; plenty of people still wanted to be together in a way I never had. Finally a woman stood, another patient, and went to him and spoke, simply, matter-of-factly, not with any particular solicitude, asking him if she could help. I need my wife, the man said again, I need to call my wife and I don't have a phone, I need my wife. Well, the woman said, there's a phone in that other corner, and she pointed across the room, if you want I can help you get over there. But the man didn't want this; he would push himself, he said, and then quickly he got stuck, when he tried to maneuver around the wooden partition he couldn't manage the turn, and without saying anything more the woman took hold of the handles on the back of the chair and pushed him through. It wasn't hard, I thought, watching as people in their path made room for them, pulling in their legs, rearranging bags; decency wasn't hard, you saw someone in trouble and you helped them out of it. The man spoke loudly into the phone, You need to come get me, he said, I can't wait here all day. I need to lay down, he said, there's nowhere for me to lay down. He raised his voice to say No, repeating it, no, no, you need to come, you need to come, and then after a moment he dropped the phone back in its cradle. She won't come, he said to the woman, who had remained beside him, and then fell silent, only shaking his head when she asked if he wanted to call anybody else. The woman returned him to his corner and he closed his eyes and let his chin drop to his chest. She stood beside him a moment, hesitating, now she too was unsure what she should do, and then returned to her seat. Maybe he would sleep, I thought, wondering if the woman he had called had been cruel or if she was acting in his best interest; maybe it had been difficult to get him here, maybe she knew he needed to stay. I didn't hear him say anything else; he became another darkened window, not a story anymore but a blank page.

Excerpted from Small Rain by Garth Greenwell. Copyright © 2024 by Garth Greenwell. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.