Preston smiles. It’s small, genuine, and tired.
“On it, Chief.”
He walks away.
I watch him go. And for the first time since he drove his Porsche into my parking garage, I don't want to fire him.
I just want to see what he does next.
Chapter 6
The Midnight Feast
LUKE
There is a specific kind of silence that falls over a hospital at 3:00 AM. It isn't peaceful. It is heavy. It is the sound of the building holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop—or for a monitor to flatline.
They call it the Witching Hour. I call it the "Regretting My Life Choices" Hour.
I am currently standing in front of the vending machine in the basement corridor, having a staring contest with a bag of pretzels that looks like it has been in there since the Reagan administration. My eyes feel like they are filled with sand. My caffeine crash hit about forty minutes ago, leaving me with nothing but a headache and a hollow, gnawing feeling in my stomach.
I haven't eaten since 6:00 AM. I missed lunch because of a trauma alert. I missed dinner because of a pile-up on the I-95.
“E6,” I whisper to myself, my voice raspy. “Just dispense the pretzels. Don't be a hero.”
I press the buttons. The coil turns. It groans. The bag teeters on the edge of freedom, taunting me with its salty promise, and then… stops. It gets stuck against the glass, hanging by a single, crimped corner.
I rest my forehead against the cool plastic of the machine. I don’t have the energy to shake it. I just accept defeat. This is it. This is how I go out. Starved to death in a basement, defeated by a bag of Rold Gold while my mother is probably upstairs judging my chart notes.
“That is the saddest thing I have ever seen.”
I don’t even lift my head. “Go away, York.”
“I’m serious,” Preston’s voice comes from my left. He sounds annoyingly awake. “You look like you’re hugging the vending machine. It’s undignified, Chief. It’s beneath you. Also, that machine steals quarters. It’s a known grifter.”
“I’m hiding,” I mumble into the glass. “Mama Ortiz is on a rampage. She critiqued my suture technique on Bed 5 in front of three med students. She said my knots were ‘loose.’ I need a pretzel before I can face her again.”
“You’re not going to get it from that antique,” Preston says. A hand clamps around my upper arm. It’s a firm grip, surprising me. “Come with me.”
I try to pull away. “I don’t have time for your shenanigans, Preston. Unless you have a crowbar to liberate these carbohydrates, leave me to die.”
“I don't have a crowbar,” Preston says, pulling me away from the glass. “But I have leverage. Walk.”
He drags me—literally drags me—down the hall, away from the elevators and toward the on-call rooms. He stops at Room 3B, the one nobody uses because the mattress is lumpy, the radiator squeals, and it smells like lemon pledge and despair.
He pushes the door open.
I brace myself for the smell of stale linens.
Instead, I am hit with the scent of… sesame oil? And ginger? And… is that truffle?
“What…”
I step inside.
Preston closes the door behind us, shutting out the hum of the hospital.
The small, battered desk has been transformed. He has laid out a surgical towel like a tablecloth. On top of it sits a spread that has no business being in a hospital at 3:00 AM. There are black lacquered take-out boxes, wooden chopsticks, small ceramic dishes of soy sauce, and two bottles of sparkling water that are sweating cold condensation.
