The room is small, smelling of industrial detergent and stale air. A single bunk bed is pushed against the wall. A desk lamp is on, but it’s turned toward the wall, casting long, weird shadows.
Jax is sitting on the edge of the lower bunk.
He hasn't changed out of his scrubs. He is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging down. His hands are clasped together, but his right leg is bouncing up and down with enough kinetic energy to power the hospital’s backup generator.
He looks up as I enter.
He looks wrecked.
I have seen exhaustion before. I have seen residents hallucinate after forty-eight-hour shifts. But this is different. This is a man who is being eaten alive from the inside out.
His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with red. His skin is greyish under the tan. He is vibrating.
"I said occupied, York," he mutters, rubbing his face with both hands. "Go polish your stethoscope somewhere else."
I close the door behind me. I lock it.
"You have been awake for thirty-eight hours," I state.
"Who’s counting?"
"I am."
I walk over to the bed. The small space forces intimacy. I am standing directly in front of him.
"Jax," I say softly. "Go home."
He laughs. It’s a broken, jagged sound.
"Home," he repeats. "Right. Home is quiet. I can't do quiet right now, Max. Quiet is loud."
He looks at the wall.
"If I go home," he whispers, "I have to lie in the dark. And if I lie in the dark, I start doing the math."
"The math?"
"The ledger," he says, tapping his temple. "Who made it. Who didn't. Why the kid in Bay 4 died this morning but the drunk driver lived. Why I’m here and my unit isn't."
He looks up at me. His eyes are wide, unblinking.
"I can't turn it off, Max. The noise. It’s just... screaming."
Survivor’s Guilt.
I recognize it instantly. It is not the PTSD of flashbacks and violence; it is the frantic, desperate need to justify one's own survival by saving everyone else. He is running a race against a ghost that he can never beat.
"Insomnia," I diagnose.
"Combat insomnia," he corrects. "Hyper-vigilance. My brain thinks we’re still in the sandbox. It thinks if I close my eyes, the perimeter gets breached."
He stands up abruptly, pacing the three feet of available floor space.
"I just need to work," he says, his voice rising. "Ineed another shift. If I keep moving, I don't have to think. I’m fine. I’m functional."
He moves to push past me.
I catch him.
