I drop my head to the table. "That was one time."
"Once was enough. The whole third floor thinks you were having a medical emergency." She squeezes my hand, her rings cold against my skin. "Twenty-minute check-ins. Non-negotiable. And I'm driving you."
"What?"
"Your van's too recognizable. Every tweaker in Phoenix knows that mobile clinic. Plus, if you're gonna get murdered, I'm not letting you drive yourself there like some kind of autonomous victim."
She's right. My decision-making around Bad Decision has been questionable at best, treasonous at worst. Case in point:agreeing to meet someone whose club is responsible for my brother's mentor's death. Someone whose voice makes me forget that consequences exist.
"Fine," I agree.
"And wear something you can run in."
"It's a diner, not a track meet."
"Lena, this man has made you orgasm via voice note alone while you know he's Iron Talons. Your prefrontal cortex is offline. Your amygdala is making decisions. Wear running shoes."
Six hours later, I'm at Sister Margaret's tiny apartment for our monthly dinner tradition, parked three blocks away because I'm paranoid Miguel might drive by and wonder why I'm wearing lipstick to dinner with a nun.
She's the one who convinced the hospital to hire me despite my "complicated family situation" (her words for "brother who wears colors"). Tiny, fierce, seventy-three years old, and still terrifying enough to make grown men cry during confession.
"You're glowing, mija," she says, passing me the salad bowl.
"Just tired, Sister."
"Tired makes people gray. You're glowing like uranium."
Jesus Christ. "Maybe it's the new moisturizer."
"The kind that texts you at midnight?"
How does she—? Never mind. Nuns know things. It's their superpower, along with guilt distribution and making you feel simultaneously loved and judged.
"It's nothing serious," I lie.
"Mija." She reaches across the table, takes my hand. Her skin is paper-thin, marked with age spots and a lifetime of service. "Your mother, God rest her soul, loved with her whole heart. It destroyed her. Your father took that love and twisted it until she couldn't see any way out but through that truck."
My throat closes. We don't talk about my parents. About how love became possession, became control, became a murder-suicide that left two orphans.
"You have her heart," Sister Margaret continues. "Beautiful, dangerous, too willing to give everything. And now you're glowing for someone who makes you check your phone during grace."
"Sister—"
"I'm not judging. I'm warning. Be careful who you give that heart to. And be even more careful that Miguel doesn't find out until you're sure."
"How do you—"
"Child, I've known you since you were seventeen and thought you could hide grief under eyeliner. You can't hide from me. Or from God. Or from your brother, though he's giving you space to hang yourself with it."
Wednesday morning, 7 AM, and Lisa Santos, our nurse manager, corners me by the med cart. My body's already in fight-or-flight mode—cortisol spiking, heart rate elevated, that copper taste of anxiety flooding my mouth.
"Lena, can we talk?"
"What's up?"
"I know you've been using the van for extra shifts at other hospitals. The Ghost Clinic work you do—it's admirable. Really."
Oh. This isn't about Bad Decision. This is about my other bad decisions.
