Hey, this is Izzy Delgado, from the ER earlier. Sorry to bother you, but the doctor mentioned 'biliary obstruction.' Can you explain what that means in plain English? Don't feel obligated to answer, I know you're busy.
I hit send before I could change my mind, then immediately regretted it. It was almost 4 a.m. He was probably with other patients, or finally getting a break, or —
My phone buzzed.
Jimmy
No bother at all. It basically means there's a blockage in one of the tubes that drains fluid from his liver. It's what's causing the jaundice and the pain. The CT scan should tell us where and what it is. It's a common complication, and we can usually treat it.
I read the message twice, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders ease. That made sense. A blockage was something concrete, something that could be fixed. I was formulating a reply when another message came through.
Jimmy
The more important question is, how are YOU holding up? That was a tough night.
I stared at the screen. When was the last time someone had asked me that question? When was the last time someone had looked past Lieutenant Delgado to see the person underneath?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. The professional response would be to say I was fine, thank him for the information, and end the conversation. That's what I always did. That's what was expected.
Instead, I found myself typing:
I'm okay. Just tired. Thanks for explaining.
The response came quickly:
Jimmy
Tired is an understatement. Get some coffee if you can. And try to breathe. He's in the best place he can be right now. Let us do the worrying for a bit.
Let us do the worrying for a bit.
I read that line over and over. When was the last time someone had offered to carry part of the load? When was the last time someone had told me it was okay to not be strong for a minute?
I looked around the empty waiting room, with its bad coffee and worse lighting, and for the first time since Margaret called me, the crushing weight on my chest felt a little lighter. Not gone — it would never be gone while Cap was fighting for his life — but manageable.
I typed back:
Thank you. Really.
Jimmy
Anytime. I mean that.
I tucked the phone back into my pocket, but not before saving his number properly in my contacts. Jimmy Dalton. The night shift nurse who'd treated Cap like he mattered, who'd taken the time to explain things in words I couldunderstand, who'd asked how I was holding up like the answer actually mattered to him.
For the first time all night, I allowed myself a small, weary smile. The professional connection had shifted into something else, something I wasn't quite ready to name. But sitting there in that sterile waiting room, watching the sunrise creep through the windows, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
I felt seen. Not as Lieutenant Delgado, not as the woman who had to have all the answers, but as Izzy. Just Izzy, who was scared and tired and grateful for a kind voice in the dark.
And maybe that was enough to get me through whatever came next.
chapter
eight
Seven a.m. wasthe cruelest hour for night shift workers. Not because it marked the end of twelve hours of controlled chaos — that was actually the good part. No, seven a.m. was cruel because it was the exact moment when the rest of the world was starting their day with fresh coffee and optimism, while you were stumbling out into the morning light feeling like you'd been hit by a truck, craving nothing more than a greasy burger and the sweet embrace of blackout curtains.
"See you tonight, Jimmy," Chloe called as I gathered my things from the nurses' station. She'd made it through her first full week on night shift, and despite the challenges we'd thrown at her — roofing nails that weren't roofing nails, shampoo bottles in places shampoo bottles had no business being, and one very sick firefighter — she'd handled it all with grace.
