handoff report as a song I keep almost catching

I'm standing at shift change in a corridor that keeps folding back on itself, reading a handoff that reads like a poem — weaning, pulse, the soft percussion of a vent cycling. The alarms aren't ringing, they're humming underneath everything like a key I almost recognize. Nobody is sick in the dream. Everybody is just waiting for the music to decide what it wants to be, and I'm listening hard enough that my ribs ache.