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The Bureau is patient.

Marco is not.

At work, the days stack clean and regular until they don't.

On a Wednesday that starts with an empty subway and a hot coffee, I'm midway through a triage rush when the floor tilts.

I'm not lightheaded.

I'm off balance in a way that makes the room feel closer than it is.

I hand off a chart, tell Rizzo I need a minute, and walk to the staff bathroom like I'm counting steps to the shore.

The light in there is too bright.

The tile is cold through my shoes.

I brace my hands on the sink and breathe until the muscles in my throat stop trying to climb.

It does not help.

The wave crests and I make it to a stall just in time.

It's not dramatic.

It's clean and quick and humiliating in a quiet way that leaves my eyes wet.

I sit there and listen to the fan while my body decides what it wants to be.

When I can stand, I rinse my mouth.

The mint is sharp.

I watch my face in the mirror, not because I like what I see, but because I need to check that I still look like someone who can take a blood pressure and give a straight answer.

Rizzo knocks once and asks if I'm okay.

I say yes and blame stress and a bad bagel.

She gives me a packet of crackers from her pocket and tells me to keep one in my cheek like I'm hiding a secret.

It makes me smile even as my stomach turns again.

I go back to the floor and finish the shift.

I don't Google anything.

I don't count days.

I make a note to drink more water and eat something with salt before the next run of patients, and I keep my head down.

The thought does not leave.

It sits in the edge of my vision like a person I know from a block over.

It does not say hello.

It does not go away.