I grab his shoulders. He is solid, tense as a wire.
"Jax," I say firmly. "Stop."
"Let go, Max."
"No."
I tighten my grip. I force him to look at me.
"You are not functional," I say. "You are trembling. Your pupils are dilated. Your reaction time is compromised. If you touch a patient right now, you are a danger to them."
That stops him. The "Savior" in him overrides the panic. He slumps.
"I can't sleep," he admits, his voice breaking. "I physically can't. I tried. I lay down for an hour. I just stared at the ceiling until the patterns started moving."
"Sit down," I order.
He looks at me, defiant for a second, then the fight drains out of him. He sits back down on the bunk.
I look around the room. It is stark. Cold.
"Scoot over," I say.
"What?"
"Move."
Jax shifts to the wall.
I sit down next to him on the narrow mattress. Our shoulders press together. His heat seeps into my arm through the layers of my wool coat.
"What are you doing?" Jax asks, confused.
"I am anchoring the perimeter," I say.
He blinks. "What?"
"You said you feel like the perimeter will be breached if you close your eyes," I say calmly. "I am watching the perimeter. Iam the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. I am widely considered to be a control freak and a tyrant. Nothing gets past me. Not even ghosts."
Jax stares at me. A small, incredulous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"You’re ridiculous."
"I am effective," I counter. "Lie down."
"Max—"
"Lie down, Jax."
He hesitates. Then, slowly, he swings his legs up. He lies back against the thin, flat pillow.
I stay sitting on the edge of the bed. I am close enough to touch him. I rest my hand on his shin, a grounding weight.
"It’s too quiet," Jax whispers, staring at the ceiling. "The vent makes a noise, but it’s not enough."
"I will talk," I say.
"About what?"
