The atrium of St Mercy is what passes for old-growth forest these days; the residents never touch the trees, but on the floor they grow mushrooms. They aren’t the kind of mushrooms you eat for nutrition.
Outside, the sky boils black and petty warlords kill over well water, but the barbed wire around St Mercy has scratched out a rough square of sanctuary. That sanctuary comes with a price. You only get into the hospital if you’re bleeding; their medicine does more than cure.
In the atrium, deer-masked and holy, the Wild looks upon you with wet dark eyes.