1
ROWAN
I step into my dress, careful not to snag the hem as I lift it over my hips. The fabric slides up smoothly, cool against my skin, black and elegant in its simplicity. A gala-approved dress that doesn't feel like a costume. The neckline sits just below my collarbones, modest without being prudish. The cut skims my waist and falls to mid-calf, professional enough for a medical gala without making me look like I'm trying too hard.
I twist slightly, reaching back for the zipper, balancing on one heel while the other foot presses into the plush bedroom rug for leverage. The zipper stops halfway up my spine. I pause, my fingers gripping the tiny metal pull, and tug gently.
Nothing.
I try again, this time with more force, twisting my shoulder back as far as the joint allows. The zipper refuses to budge.
“You can’t be serious,” I mutter to the empty room, my voice echoing faintly off the bedroom walls.
I crane my neck and twist at the waist, balancing on one heel like a malfunctioning flamingo, only to discover the angle is still impossible, my shoulder is staging a protest, and the fabric has decided my ribs are an enemy it intends to defeat.
“For the love of Pete!” I cry out, twisted up and wobbling. “Now is not the time!”
My phone lights up on the dresser, buzzing insistently against the polished wood. Mom's name flashes across the screen, followed by the voicemail icon a moment later. I listen to it on speaker while I wrestle with the zipper, her cheerful voice filling the room.
“Rowan, sweetheart, I know you're busy, but I wanted to remind you about Ethan's birthday dinner next week. He insists he doesn't care, but you know how your brother gets when we don't make a fuss, and I was thinking maybe I can make that casserole I made last time, the one with the cheese and the… Oh, and don't forget to bring that pie recipe you mentioned, the one from that cookbook I gave you last Christmas. I know you probably haven't had time to try it yet, but I thought maybe…”
The zipper still refuses to move. I plant one foot on the edge of the bed for leverage, lean sideways at an angle no adult woman should ever attempt alone, and yank harder until my fingers ache and the fabric digs in like it has developed a personal vendetta. My heel slips on the bedspread. I wobble. Iovercorrect. My free hand lunges for the dresser like it’s a lifeline.
The mug I forgot I’d set there tips in slow, inevitable betrayal, coffee sloshing over the rim and flooding the wood before cascading onto the floor in a steady drip.
I freeze, staring down at the mess. Then I look up at my reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Hair half-pinned, makeup done, dress gaping open at the back, one foot on the bed, the other wobbling on a precarious heel.
“I swear,” I tell my reflection, my voice flat and resigned, “this is not how tonight is supposed to go.”
The voicemail continues cheerfully in the background, my mother's voice rising with enthusiasm as she details potential dessert options.
I hop off the bed, adjust my weight onto both feet, and reach back one more time to wrestle the zipper free. The strap on my left shoe snaps clean through with a soft pop. I stare down at it, watching the delicate black leather dangle uselessly from the buckle.
Then I start laughing.
It comes out dry and breathless, bordering on hysterical as I brace one hand against the wall and let the absurdity of it all wash over me. Trauma surgeon. Calm under pressure. Capable of handling catastrophic injury without blinking, making life-or-death decisions in seconds, and standing in an operatingroom for hours without faltering. Taken down by a zipper and a shoe.
That feels appropriate, considering how carefully I've built my life to keep moments like this from happening at all.
My apartment is quiet the way only intentional spaces ever are. Not empty or lonely, just ordered enough that my mind can breathe when the rest of the world refuses to slow down. Shoes line the wall beside the door, toes aligned, laces tucked. Coats hang in the closet with space between them so the fabric doesn't touch. The entry table holds one shallow ceramic dish, and inside it sit my keys, placed there every night without exception.
The living room looks untouched unless you pay attention. Neutral cushions rest against the back of the couch at identical angles. The throw blanket is folded into a clean rectangle, centered along the arm. The coffee table holds a single ceramic mug on a coaster and a neat stack of medical journals aligned to the edge, corners squared. No clutter. No noise. The surfaces are bare except for what belongs there, and everything belongs exactly where I put it.
Along the narrow desk by the window, slim notebooks sit stacked by size and color, the pale covers unbent, and the pages crisp. The first few pages of each are filled with half-started lists, fragments of thoughts I meant to come back to, then abandoned when the hospital demanded my attention. The rest of the pages wait, blank and patient, monuments to intentions I never quite finish.
The kitchen is spotless but lived in. Protein bars, arranged in labeled containers, sit beside the coffee maker, which hums as it warms each morning, placed exactly where my hand expects it to be, even in the dark. I don't need to look to pour the water. Muscle memory handles that. Coffee pods stack in a precise grid inside the drawer. Everything has its place, its function, and its predictable rhythm.
My bedroom is designed with purpose, with crisp sheets pulled tight and blackout curtains sealed at the edges to shut out the city glow that would otherwise intrude on what little sleep I manage to get. The lamp sits at just the right angle to light the pages of a book without washing the room in light, and nothing in the space is meant for indulgence. It serves one purpose only. Recovery.
The only chaos I allow exists outside. My car sits in the lot below, stuffed with empty coffee cups, forgotten gym shoes, and receipts I keep promising myself I'll sort through someday. That mess stays out there. I don't bring it inside. The apartment is my sanctuary, the one place where I can impose order on a world that refuses to cooperate. Tonight, the order has clearly failed me.
The laughter fades into a long exhale as I straighten up, brushing a loose strand of brown hair back from my face. My mother's voicemail ends with a cheerful reminder to call her back when I get a chance, followed by the mechanical beep asking whether I want to save or delete the message. I ignore it.
There's a knock at the door. I don't answer right away. I’m too busy staring at the coffee spreading toward the edge of the rug.Another knock follows, firmer this time, accompanied by a familiar voice.
“Rowan,” Lila calls through the wood, her tone filled with amusement. “Open up before I assume you've been abducted by your own perfectionism.”
I unlock the door and step aside without a word. Lila Moreno sweeps in like a force of nature, arms loaded with what appears to be a small emergency kit that rattles suspiciously. Safety pins spill from one pocket. Duct tape peeks out of another. A travel-sized sewing kit dangles from her wrist. She takes one look at me, dress half-zipped and shoe broken, and lifts a perfectly sculpted brow.
