Late at night. On the bus.

I often bus home late. Sometimes I’m late working. Sometimes I grab a drink with friends. The bus I take goes over Pill Hill — home to an overfull handful of hospitals.

When I bus home, there’s hardly a ride where someone doesn’t ask “Does this bus go to First Hill, does this bus go to Swedish?” Swedish is the sprawling kingdom of a hospital claiming primacy of place on Pill Hill.

And I’m always sad. The querying bus riders aren’t exercising their exploratory impulse. The ride to Pill Hill is an hour, two, a whole night long, depending on where they come from. And ultimately, Seattle’s transit means it isn’t super bad.

Yet, I’m sad. This isn’t okay, for the chance to see a loved one sick.