Page 40 of The Run Back Home

I look at the eighteen-year-old in front of me with a neck tattoo of a knife leading to the gash behind his ear and smile.

"How fitting," I joke. We both chuckle. "Well, Slice, let's keep the hair cutting to the professionals from now on, okay?" I tie off the last stitch by his ear and snip off the excess thread.

"You got it, boss," he says, the gold in his mouth gleaming at me. "I guess trying to save on the forty dollar fade probably cost me a little more, huh?"

I click my tongue. "Almost cost you an ear."

"Yeah," he laughs.

I clean the area once more, blotting it dry with gauze before securing a clean pad over the wound with tape. "You're gonna need this thing if you want to keep producing music."

His finger flies toward me as he jolts his shoulder back, thankfully after the needle left my hand. "You'll listen to that song I told you about?"

I smother my real reaction. "Whipped Cream Dreams?" I ask, straight faced.

Slice purses his lips and crosses his arms over his chest. "That's the one."

I nod slowly, my brows high. "Wouldn't miss it."

He beams his grills at me once more as I push my wheelie chair away from the bed where he's sitting. "You'll get care instructions when you're officially discharged," I tell him. "But make sure to keep clippers away from that spot until it heals."

He nods, and I stand.

"While I go do that, Google Gold Standard Barbershop." I gesture toward the iPhone in his hand. "I think that's the name. They managed to clean up my brother's mop of hockey hair, so I'm sure they'd be able to help you out."

Slice leans back on the pillow and taps on the screen. "Thanks, Doc."

I don't bother correcting him. Something tells me the YouTube music video producer doesn't necessarily go by the books with anything, let alone my credentials.

"You got it," I say instead, smiling as I peel my gloves off both hands and toss them into the trash.

I walk back to the nurses' station, quickly updating his chart and completing his orders before checking the time. Reaching under the counter, I grab my Drippy's cup. I bring the straw to my lips without really looking, devastation hitting when I slurp up nothing but the watered-down remnants of my cold brew from earlier this morning.

I groan, my eyes drifting to the waiting room. I realize too quickly that I'll never make it to the third floor before I'm called to help another patient. But that doesn't change the fact that I need more caffeine before that can happen.

My shoulders sag briefly before I remember the coffee cart I saw outside when I started my shift. The nurse I took over for had one of their unlabeled cups in her hand. She said they only show up sporadically, but when they do, it's cause for celebration—anything beats the sludge that sits in the on-call room.

I see Dylan walking into room six as I dart toward the exit. I make a C shape with my hand and tilt it toward my mouth, asking her without words if she needs a cup too. She waves me off, shaking her head, as she slides the door shut.

Stepping outside, I soak in the cool breeze for just a moment. We're in that weird in-between where fall feels like it's only visiting unless the sun's gone down. The leaves haven't fully changed yet, and there are still just as many hot days as cool ones. You never really know what you're going to get.

But today feels like fall. A breeze, a few clouds breaking up the sun still determined to stay. One of those rare days where the temperature actually makes sense, and you don't have to change your clothes three times to adjust for the weather.

After the few seconds I give myself to suck in the crisp, clean air that doesn't smell like bleach or antiseptic, I spot the cart parked outside the main entrance beside the ER doors.

I stride toward it, thankful that there's only one person in line in front of me. But the second I spot the haircut of Slice's dreams and the silver chain underneath it that gleams in the sun, I freeze.

I run through my mental notes from nursing school, trying to decide if someone can actually die from caffeine withdrawal because, otherwise… I'm not so sure this coffee's worth it.

"Thank you."

The voice carries over to me—the wind I was so grateful for only moments ago now taunting me.

I look behind me, half hoping to hide in plain sight and half calculating the possibility that I make it back inside the ER doors before he sees me.

But when I turn back around, I realize too late that both are impossible.

"Haven't seen you in six years, and now you're everywhere."