Rounds start at 8am: bellies are pressed, labs frowned at, lungs auscultated, tubes examined, pain discussed. Dozens of teams with hundreds of physicians, nurse practitioners, residents, interns, and students roam the halls, teaching, conversing, lecturing, scratching heads.

But at 10am one of my favorite parts of the day begins. The physical therapists start arriving and the patients start their daily scheduled exercises of walking the halls. Some measure it in steps, some in laps, some in miles.

They walk, in hospital gowns, navy robes, yellow

striped socks. They walk, pushing IV poles, with tubes peering out of their gowns. They walk, dragging oxygen tanks. They walk, with extra therapists silently pushing wheelchairs behind them, if they're the unsteady type.

They walk, with their physical therapists, heads

together, arms and hands intertwined for safety.

And they talk. On these 20-minute laps around the hall, patient and therapist talk about things banal and extraordinary. I hear snippets as they shuffle past me, and a warmth spreads in me as I eavesdrop on these human encounters.

"My grandson died in his sleep," an elderly woman said shakily as she shuffled by with a bright pink aluminum walker. "He never made it to the hospital." The therapist, young, ponytail swinging, navy scrubs, stops. She rubs her back, and says, "I lost my grandpa last year."

Then she continues, "Watch the people in front of you, and angle your walker to the left." And they continue forward. "How old was he?" I hear the therapist ask as they headed away.

A young male, nearly 7 feet tall, is taking halting steps with his therapist. If not for the

3 drains emerging from his gown, he would look too healthy to be a patient. He admires his therapist's diamond ring. "I like that diamond shape. I wanted to buy one for my girlfriend but then this happened."

"Buy it," the petite brunette advised, steadying him with her gait belt

"Your girlfriend hasn't left your side in the weeks that you've been here."

"Yeah," he said uncertainly.

An elderly Italian walked by briskly, gowned and robed, nasogastric tube taped to his nose. His therapist eyed him carefully and admonished him to slow down.

"Salmon." He declared. "That's what I miss eating."

"I make delicious salmon," the male physical therapist admitted.

"With butter?" the patient asked suspiciously.

And they put their heads together, slowed down, and exchanged favorite recipes.

And the rest of the teams keep rounding, stepping carefully out of the way, making room for the pairs of people giving to each other.