Hospital Beds

The room the Complete and Total Loser's father is in is a good one but like all the rest is structured for medical work more than comfort. It has an amazing bathroom with a shower the Loser would kill to have. The view isn't good; an interior courtyard, interesting only architecturally. (The Loser now wishes he had done something about the room his mother died in last month. She could only see a brick wall.) In all the hospital rooms the Loser's seen the past few years however good the view is the patients aren't able to see it. The beds are always angled toward the TV. 

The bed has a perfect mattress and side rails that protect but don't confine. Large tables swing over at a perfect height for reading or eating. And from the panel on the inside you can turn on a radio, a TV, a light or call a nurse to tend to intimate functions. 
The Loser puzzled over how small his parents have seemed in these beds. Yes, they both have been ravaged by time. Both were five foot ten in younger days and sturdy. His mother weighed less than a hundred pounds at her death and his father, 91, has little muscle mass now. So there's that. But still. Small. 

The Loser finally realized why this is so: It's the beds. They articulate, another control. The positions they choose is never flat so their bodies are bent, crumpled, like a snake lying on an accordion, and so they appear shorter than ever. 

The Loser's father rests after a hard day of medical tests.