Page 5 of What We Break
But here's the thing. I learned early to pay attention to that feeling. The one that prickles at the base of your skull right before a shift goes sideways. I felt it in the Philippines twenty minutes before a bus crash brought in fourteen patients. Felt it in Montana the night of that ice storm that turned the ER into a revolving door.
So am I paranoid? Sure. But paranoid people live longer.
Probably.
Tonight, though, my instincts are wrong. Nothing dramatic happens. No bus crashes, no ice storms, no festival casualties. Just a steady, manageable stream of people who need help.
False alarm. You're not psychic, Mitchell. You're just anxious.
Shift's almost over. I'm restocking supply carts, shoving gauze packs into slots like it requires any brain power at all, which means my brain goes exactly where I don't want it to go.
My parents.
They've never questioned their calling. Not once. Never paused, never pivoted, never woken up one morning and thought what if I tried something completely different? They found their purpose early,grabbed it with both hands, and just... held on. White-knuckled it through decades.
I used to think that made them lucky.
Now I'm not so sure. They've seen more of the world than almost anyone I know, but always through the same lens. What needs to be built. Who needs help. Where God is pointing them next. They've held so many strangers, loved so many communities. But they've never just lived somewhere. Never had anything permanent. Never just stayed.
So maybe that's what I'm doing. Learning to stay. Learning what it feels like to have a place instead of a posting.
Or maybe I'm just tired and should go home before I get weepy over a supply cart.
I'm grabbing my things when Dr. Cervantes stops by. Mid-fifties, gray hair permanently escaping in three directions, scrubs wrinkled like he slept in them. Which, honestly, he might have. The man runs on coffee fumes and sheer stubbornness — you can see it in the way he carries himself, like he's perpetually five minutes behind and has made peace with that. But his eyes are kind. He notices things. Knows his nurses' names, asks about their weekends, actually listens to the answers. Which is either genuinely good or deeply suspicious. I haven't decided yet.
"Good work tonight, Laine. You've got a good instinct for patient care."
Don't blush. You're a professional. Professionals don't blush at compliments.
"Thank you."
"We're lucky to have you. You're good with people — you make them feel comfortable."
I am blushing. Cool. Very professional. "Thank you. You guys make it easy to do my best. Everyone here is so great."
He smiles. A real one, eyes crinkling, teeth showing. "Yes. We do have a great team, don't we?"
"We do! See you tomorrow."
"Nice and late." We both laugh, because night shift humor is its own language. You start your day when the rest of the world's brushing their teeth and crawling into bed. You eat dinner at midnight.You watch the sunrise from a parking lot like some kind of vampire who forgot to go inside. It's weird. But it's my kind of weird.
The early morning air hits me when I walk out, and I stop. Just for a second.
The mountains are there. They're always there — that's sort of the whole point of mountains — but I still catch myself staring like an idiot. Peaks going pink and gold, the sky barely committing to blue yet. Three months and this still gets me.
These mountains, though. I'm going to learn their names. Every single peak. I'm going to be the person who corners someone at a party and won't shut up about elevation gains.
Big plans, Mitchell. Real ambitious. Learning mountain names. Watch out, world.
My apartment is ten minutes from the hospital. Nothing special. Beige walls, adequate parking, a pool that allegedly works in summer but currently looks like it's culturing something for the CDC. Two bedrooms. Small balcony. And I've done something I've never done before.
I decorated.
Not just the basics. Not just a bed and a towel and a suitcase shoved in the corner like I might bolt in the middle of the night. I bought throw pillows. Plural. I bought plants. There's a fiddle leaf fig by the window that I check on every morning like it's a patient in the ICU. I talk to it. I'm not proud of that, but I'm not going to stop either.
You're still alive. Good job. We're both doing great.
I heat up the pasta I made two days ago and have been eating for every meal since, and settle onto my couch with my book.
