"Coming from you, that's hilarious." Dana's expression shifted, concern replacing the lightness. "You look terrible."
"Thanks. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear."
"I'm serious. When did you last sleep more than four hours?"
The question hit too close to the nightmare still clinging to the edges of my consciousness. "I sleep fine."
"Bea." Dana's voice dropped, taking on that particular tone that meant she was about to say something I didn't want to hear. "Elena mentioned the nightmares. Said you’d wake up screaming twice a week at least."
Traitor.
"I'm handling it."
"Are you?" Dana crossed her arms, looking far too much like a concerned friend and not enough like someone I could dismiss with clinical detachment. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like you're about three days from complete collapse."
"I'm functional."
"Functional isn't the same as okay."
"In my profession, functional is all that matters." I turned back to my datapad, hoping she'd take the dismissal. "I have work to do."
But Dana didn't leave. She stood there, radiating that infuriating patience she'd developed since bonding with Er'dox, like she had all the time in the world to wait me out.
Finally, she spoke quietly. "I used to think work was enough too. That if I could just fix one more system, solve one more problem, keep everyone else alive, then maybe I wouldn't have to deal with my own shit. Took me almost dying on that planet to realize I was wrong."
"I'm not you."
"No. You're worse." The words were gentle but uncompromising. "At least I knew I was running. You've convinced yourself you're standing still."
"Bea," she said finally, "you can't keep running forever."
"Watch me."
It came out sharper than I intended. Dana flinched slightly, and guilt twisted in my stomach, but I didn't take it back. Didn't apologize. Just turned back to my datapad and pretended to be absorbed in patient notes.
After a moment, Dana left.
I told myself I was relieved.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of routine medical care. By 1800 hours, I was back in the rhythm that kept me sane, evaluate, diagnose, treat, document. Repeat. The work had a structure to it. Rules that made sense. Outcomes you could measure.
Unlike everything else in my life, which was chaos pretending to be stable.
I was reviewing lab results for a Zandovian crew member's unusual enzyme levels when Zorn appeared at my shoulder.
"Walk with me," he said.
Not a request. An order.
I saved my work and followed him out of the medical bay, down corridors I'd walked a hundred times, to a destination I didn't immediately recognize. When we stopped, I realized where we were at the observation deck on the ship's dorsal side. Floor-to-ceiling transparent panels looked out into space, stars scattered like diamonds on black velvet.
Zorn stood at the viewport, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at infinity.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" he asked.
I didn't answer.
"I see a brilliant physician with exceptional diagnostic skills. Someone who saved three Vex'ali lives this morning before most of the crew had finished breakfast. Someone who's mastered xenobiology faster than anyone I've ever worked with." He turned to face me, golden-brown eyes serious. "I also see someone who's drowning, and refusing every hand that reaches out to help."
