Jane parks in a restricted zone near the hospital entrance and glances around nervously, expecting a security guard to scold her. She has visited the hospital many times, for well-baby visits and flu shots, but she’s never pulled her car into the patient pick-up lane. The red curb glares at her accusingly. Restless, she gets out and leans against the car door, her feet balancing on the edge of the curb. Her shoe dislodges a piece of peeling crimson paint. Jane kicks it away, revealing the bare concrete below. Like most things, it’s less intimidating once you get past the surface.