Just then, Carly poked her head into the room. "Jimmy, Admitting just called. They've got a bed for him upstairs."
And just like that, the moment was over. I went back to my duties, and Izzy went to be with her family.
An hour later, as I was charting at the nurses' station, Carly sidled up next to me, a fresh cookie in her hand. "So," she said, her voice full of mischief. "The tough-as-nails fire lieutenant. That was smooth, Dalton. Real smooth."
I looked at her, genuinely confused. "What are you talking about?"
"Giving her your number," she said, nudging me with her elbow. "Playing the sensitive, caring nurse card. I see you."
"What? No," I said, shaking my head. "That's not … her family member is dying, Carly. I was just trying to be helpful."
"Uh-huh," she said, not believing a word of it. "A big-booty firefighter who looks like she could bench pressmeshows up looking terrified, and you just happened to offer up your number out of the goodness of your heart. I didn’t know you had it in you! I’m proud, honestly."
I opened my mouth to protest again, but then I stopped. I replayed the scene in my head. Izzy standing there, her fierce loyalty a tangible thing in the air. The way her dark eyes had locked with mine. The feeling of her fingertips brushing against my hand.
And suddenly, I wasacutelyaware of my worn-out scrubs with the “Cookie Monster” sticker I’d let a pediatric patient affix to my breast pocket as a bribe for letting me swab them for strep throat, the fact that my hair was probably a ridiculous mess, and the deep, unshakable exhaustion that was part of the night-shift uniform.
Oh, I thought, a slow heat creeping up my neck.
Oh.
chapter
seven
The waitingroom on the fourth floor was a study in institutional beige — uncomfortable chairs arranged in precise rows, fluorescent lights that hummed with a frequency designed to make you want to leave, and motivational posters that felt like insults when you were sitting there in the pre-dawn darkness watching someone you love disappear by degrees.
Margaret had gone home around midnight to get some sleep and feed the cat. "You should go too,mija," she'd said, using the endearment that always made my chest tight. "Get some rest."
But I couldn't leave. Not when Cap was upstairs in a bed that looked too small for him, hooked up to monitors that beeped and flashed like some kind of medical Christmas tree. Not when I could still see the awful yellow of his skin under the harsh hospital lights.
The doctor had come by an hour ago — Dr. Patel, I think, though the names were starting to blur together. He'd rattled off a string of words that might as well have been a foreign language: "The CT confirms our suspicions. Elevated bilirubin and alkaline phosphatase suggest cholestasis, likely due to a biliary obstruction. We need to rule out cholangitisand determine if this is related to tumor progression or a separate issue entirely."
I'd nodded like I understood, the way I always did. Lieutenant Isabel Delgado was supposed to have answers, was supposed to be in control. But sitting there in that waiting room, I felt like I was drowning in medical terminology and acronyms that everyone else seemed to speak fluently.
At the station, I knew everything. I could tell you the flow rate on any piece of equipment, the best approach for any type of structure, the exact protocol for any emergency. I could make life-and-death decisions without hesitation because I understood the variables, the risks, the tools at my disposal.
Here, I was just another family member, sitting in a plastic chair, waiting for someone else to tell me whether the person I loved most in the world was going to live or die.
The exhaustion was starting to hit me now that the adrenaline had worn off. My eyes burned from the fluorescent lights and too many hours without sleep. My hands, which never shook on a fire scene, were trembling slightly as I held my phone.
I pulled the patient label from my pocket for the third time in an hour. *Jimmy Dalton* was written in neat handwriting, followed by his number. *Us first responders have to look out for one another.*
The internal argument started immediately.
Don't be a burden. He was just being nice. He's probably busy with other patients.
But then I thought about the way he'd spoken to Cap — gentle but authoritative, treating him like a person instead of just another case. The way he'd convinced Cap to take the pain medication when I'd have been trying for hours. The way he'd looked at me when he handed me that paper, like he actually meant it.
I don't understand what's happening. I need to know.
He said to call.
First responders look out for each other.
That was the permission I needed. This wasn't about being weak or needy. This was professional courtesy. One first responder helping another navigate unfamiliar territory.
I crafted the text carefully, reading it over three times before hitting send:
