But the kid's frozen, and the woman's sliding sideways, and Lena's dropping to her knees beside the booth with her medical bag, pulling out supplies that definitely aren't standard diner equipment.
"Ma'am? Can you hear me?" She's checking pulses, pupils, already assembling what looks like emergency cardiac equipment from a bag that shouldn't hold half of what she's pulling out.
The woman gasps, stops breathing.
"Shit." Lena doesn't hesitate, just starts CPR with the kind of efficiency that comes from too much practice. "Someone time this. And get me the AED from behind the counter."
"We don't have—" the waitress starts.
"Yes, you do. Red box, white cross, probably dusty. Move!"
The waitress runs. I can't move. I'm watching Lena work—compressions perfect, counting under her breath, completely focused. She's magnificent. She's terrifying. She's everything I already knew she was but seeing it in person hits different.
The AED appears. She sets it up one-handed while maintaining compressions, and I realize I'm watching her actually save someone's life. Not theoretically, not through texts about her job, but actually pulling someone back from death in a diner that smells like old grease and broken dreams.
"Clear!" She hits the button. The woman's body jumps. Nothing. "Again. Clear!"
Second shock. The woman gasps, eyes opening, heart restarting like a reluctant engine.
"There you are," Lena says softly, switching from warrior to angel in one breath. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."
EMTs arrive. She gives them a rundown that sounds like medical poetry—cardiac episode, down three minutes, shocked twice, spontaneous circulation restored. They nod, impressed, and take over.
Lena sinks into the now-empty booth, head in her hands, exhausted. Her phone buzzes on the table.
I watch her check it. Watch her freeze mid-breath. Watch her eyes scan the diner until they land on me.
The message I just sent burns between us:You stood me up.
She's still frozen, staring at me like I'm a ghost or a diagnosis she doesn't want to confirm. Her phone buzzes again.
Please don't run.
I type it while maintaining eye contact, watching her read it, watching her process that the man she's been texting is here, has been here, just watched her save someone's life.
She doesn't run.
She also doesn't move.
We sit in separate booths, twenty feet and a lifetime apart, staring at each other while the diner continues around us—EMTs leaving, waitress cleaning, world spinning.
Hi,
I text.
Hi,
she responds.
That was incredible.
Angel:You've been here the whole time?
Me:Ghost Clinic intel. Didn't know it was you.
Angel:Now you do.
Now I do.
