By Justine Griffin

DAVIS ISLAND — The wheeze of an espresso machine dulls the Christmas music playing on the overhead speakers, but the customers waiting in line aren’t listening anyway.

A nurse in a surgical cap with green and red snowflakes is on her phone, shouldering through the line with two coffee cups in her hands. “I talked to Dad, he’s bringing the turkey,” she says.

Another nurse, dressed in plain, blue scrubs, is balancing a tray of four steaming coffees and talking to a co-worker in Mandarin. Three young doctors join the end of the line, still wearing blue booties over their Nikes and face masks tugged down around their necks. “He’s bleeding from the ear, and they don’t know if they should send him to the E.R. or to the clinic,” one explains to the others.

The mid-morning rush at the Starbucks inside Tampa General Hospital is dying down just after 10:30 a.m. on the Thursday before Christmas. The scheduled morning surgeries are well under way by now.

Starbucks isn’t the only place that serves coffee on the sprawling campus, but it is a popular attraction, tucked into the maze of the first floor of the main hospital.

The coffee shop looks and smells like any other in the chain. The signature green emblem hangs in the window.

But hospital staff and visitors stream in and out from 6 a.m. to midnight. Surgical technicians eat from lunch boxes at the wooden tabletops. Families gather on the plush, leather chairs in the corner and look over patient paperwork. On Facebook, customers express thanks for “good coffee” while they wait for news or fuel long shifts.

It’s business as usual even just before Christmas.

The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire) is interrupted briefly by a call over the speakers: “Code purple, NICU.” A few people in line check their phones, then put them away.

The scrubs come in a rainbow of colors: Turquoise. Maroon. Navy blue. Dark green. Light green. Some surgical caps have Gators or Seminoles on them. Some have candy canes.

Some visitors wear blinking Christmas lights and festive sweaters. Others look tired. They wear sweatpants, flip flops and their hair in messy buns.

A thin, balding man wearing scrubs that are so loose he’s bunched and rolled the waistband several times around his hips, gives another doctor in a white coat a warm hug as they wait in line. They discuss a patient who had a heart attack. “Tiny, tiny arteries and tiny, tiny crystals,” he describes with a thick accent. “Nothing major. She will be okay.”

They both smile.

The hospital can’t shut down for the holidays. The baristas won’t, either.

They’re open every day. Even on Christmas.