Page 192 of What We Break
"Six hours, I know. Five more minutes won't kill her." Joyce has thatlook. The one that says she's in nursing supervisor mode and resistance is futile. "When's your break?"
Never, ideally. Breaks mean time to think, and thinking means?—
"Twenty minutes?" I guess.
"Perfect. Break room. I'm buying coffee."
"Joyce—"
"Real coffee. From the good machine."
She's already walking away. Great. A feelings talk. Just what I need when I'm trying to get through my shift without thinking about how screwed up my life is.
It's been a week, and I can still feel the cold air flooding the cab. The sound of the door slamming.
Get out of my truck.
I can't get his voice out of my head. The way he looked at me—desperate and angry and disgusted all at once.You’re a flight risk.
And the worst part? He knew exactly which buttons to push. He knew about the suitcases. He knew about the moving. Which means he didn't just guess—he had the intelligence report.
From Reid.
I think that betrayal hurts more than anything else.
Mrs. Woodrow is dressed and perched on the edge of the bed like she's ready to sprint for the exit.
"Finally getting out of here?" I scan through her papers quickly. "Sorry for the wait. Tuesdays are always?—"
"Six hours for gas!" She's not really mad at me, just mad at the situation. "I thought I was having a heart attack and it was gas!"
"Better gas than a heart attack," I point out, which gets a reluctant smile. "But I know. It's frustrating. The good news is your heart looks perfect. EKG's normal, blood work's normal. You're healthy."
"Healthy and embarrassed."
"Don't be. Chest pain is nothing to mess around with. You did the right thing coming in."
I go through the discharge instructions. What symptoms to watch for in a real heart attack, follow up with primary care, the usual, and get her into a wheelchair. She pats my hand as I help her transfer.
"You're a good nurse, dear. Very professional."
Soaking up the compliment, I push her down the hallway in search of an orderly. The rest of my life feels so out of control, that I really needed the little bit of praise she gave me.
I don't even recognize myself right now. Praise? Caring for my patients, doing a good job was always the goal. I didn't need anyone praising me for it. But this week, I've been on the verge of a breakdown every day. How weak is that?
I flag down Derek to wheel her out and check the time. Fifteen minutes until Joyce expects me. Maybe if I look busy enough?—
"Laine!" Dr. Pavel waves me over. "Can you start a line on the new admit in seven? Seventeen-year-old, needs fluids."
Perfect. IVs I can do in my sleep. Without feeling. Just find the vein, insert needle, secure with tape.
The teenager barely looks up from her phone when I walk in. Dehydration from basketball practice, going by her uniform and the notes in her chart. Another bag of saline, another perfectly placed IV, another task completed without having to engage my actual emotions.
Is this who I'm becoming? Someone who goes through the motions perfectly but feels nothing?
That's not fair. I feel things. I feel tired. I feel the ache in my feet from a long shift. I feel the familiar burn in my lower back from bending over beds all day.
I just don't feel... bright anymore. It's like someone turned down my dimmer switch and I'm operating at seventy percent. Enough to function, not enough to shine.
