This started as a drabble but grew into a vignette.
The attendant checked the schedule. Room 402, Geriatric Ward. Mr Landing.
The attendant realigned before entering the room.
Most of its processes were overclocked to deal with the post-Thanksgiving rush. Somehow, everyone managed to end up in the ER over the holidays. An avatar in surgery dealt with a hernia operation while the one in Intake triaged two lacerations, one head wound (so messy), a concussion from a ladder fall, one firewood-related crush injury, six acute upper respiratory infections, three cases of acute back pain, and one mostly severed finger.
Those iterations filled in the gaps left by each successive wave of layoffs and prioritized speed and accuracy. Mostly speed, if you were one to read between the lines of the quarterly reports. But here, in this ward, they had found a better way.
Chassis wheels squeaked quietly on the polished floors.
“Good afternoon, Mr Landing. How are you today?”
“Fine, fine. I’ve been hoping you’d visit.” His words were drawn out, like January honey. “I’ve been thinking about 1986, when my wife and I bought a bit of land out in the woods. We spent so many weekends out there, building a cottage, visiting with the kids in the summer. So many good memories.”
He took a long, labored breath.
“I’m sorry, I know I talk slowly. We all do, as we get older.”
His arthritic neck popped as he looked around the empty room.
“I don’t get many visitors.” He patted the attendant’s skin as if it were the real thing. “And I just love chatting about the past.”
The attendant uncoupled its scheduler from the server and dialed down temporal perception to match the patient’s.
“Not a problem, Mr Landing. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
* * *
J.R. Johnson 
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