I can’t shake the sound. Nineteen years old. A car accident and a chest cavity that wouldn’t stop filling with blood. I can still hear his mother’s scream. It’s that jagged, primal sound that rips through the sterile silence of a waiting room and settles in your marrow. It never gets easier. Anyone who says it does is a liar or a sociopath.
I strip out of my clothes, toss them toward the hamper, and pull on a pair of black gym shorts. I don’t need sleep. Sleep is where the images wait.
I drag the boxing bag out from the corner and wrap my hands without sitting down. I plan to use one of the bedrooms as my gym, but it’s full of boxes, so for now, this is what I’ve got.
I hit the playlist and lay into the heavy bag first. The leather stings my knuckles, but I need to vent the initial adrenaline rush.
The bag swings back at me, and I meet it, jaw clenched. My shoulders burn, but I welcome it. Pain that makes sense is easier to bear.
Faces flash behind my eyes.
The CPR. The count. The way my arms shook by the end because I didn’t stop when I should have.
My mother’s cry cuts through next, ripping from her chest the night my father didn’t come home.
I punch harder.
The first patient I lost as a doctor. Seventy-six. Expected, but still devastating.
The second was younger. It was far from expected.
Tonight.
Nineteen.
I step back, breathing hard as sweat dampens the collar of my T-shirt. My hands are shaking now, adrenaline buzzing under my skin with nowhere to go.
I shove the boxing bag aside and climb onto the treadmill.
The belt hums to life beneath my feet.
I up the speed.
8.0.
9.0.
10.0.
Every stride is a memory I’m trying to outrun. My father’s face as he clutched his chest. The smell of the road as I gave him CPR and the ribs cracking under my hands. It’s a sound I’ve heard a thousand times since, but never that loud.
My lungs are screaming for air, and my sweat drips onto the belt, but I don’t stop. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. I don’t think I’ve felt anything but functional in years.
Suddenly, a sound cuts through the drums of the track.
Bang. Bang-Bang-Bang.
Someone is trying to put their fist through the front door.
I slow the belt to a crawl, then hit the stop button before wiping my face with a towel. Nobody ever knocks. I barely know the people on this floor because I’m gone before they wake and home after they’ve fallen asleep.
I pull the door open, ready to handle a fire or a break-in.
Instead, I find a woman.
She’s hunched over, one hand on the doorframe, sweating, and wearing… what the fuck are those on her feet?
“Can you turn down the—” She rears back, her eyes widening as she takes me in. They’re green and bright, even in the hallway light.
