They all nodded, some looking away, some letting their eyes close.
“Do you ever get tired of nights like this?” Lucas asked.
I sighed, my thoughts toying with what made this worth it. Then I heard it, the soft, rhythmic beeping of a monitor behind me. I glanced over my shoulder at our youngest victim for the night, the six-year-old girl they’d brought in with a stomach laceration and femur fraction. Her mother leaned over her, kissing her brow. The little girl smiled.
Slowly, I shook my head and looked at him. “No. And I hope I never do.” Silence followed a tired laugh.
By three a.m. the ER had gone quieter. Not peaceful but a haunting tranquility that reminded you death lurked near, waiting for its next victim. We’d done handovers, triple-checked drip lines and written charts. I should’ve gone home like my drained body demanded but instead, I found myself drifting with the others toward the cafeteria following the scent of burnt coffee and something vaguely resembling breakfast.
The canteen was empty, save for the overnight janitor mopping the far corner. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a sterile, unforgiving glow. We moved like ghosts, selecting food without really looking.
Trixie dumped a mountain of sugar into her coffee. “If I have to hear ‘code blue’ one more time, I’m moving to a desert island. No hospitals. No sirens. Just me, a coconut, and half naked men.”
Brandi snorted, poking at a suspiciously gray omelet. “You’d last a day. You panic when the Wi-Fi goes down.”
“Excuse you, I panic when thestreaminggoes down. There’s a difference.” At twenty-five, Trixie suited the lifestyle of a social media influencer more than a nurse yet always tried to hide her intelligence after her boyfriend felt threatened and ditched her for a dumb blonde, his words apparently.
Stasia, our Head nurse and a Russian beauty, leaned against the counter, sipping black coffee from a chipped mug. She wasn’t eating, well, she never did after nights like this. Her eyes, sharp and observant, flicked over each of us. Assessing, cataloging, protecting. As the Head Nurse, and older than us, we called her the mother hen. Although she never pushed us, I always felt her watchfulness like a warm weight on my shoulders.
When her eyes landed on me, they softened. “You good, Ish?”
I blinked, pulling my gaze from the window. “Hmm. Trying to think. But I’m pretty sure my brain cells just clocked out. Left a note saying, ‘Do Not Resuscitate.’”
She chuckled. “Good one.”
Trixie flopped into a chair, dragging her tray with her. “Okay, serious question. If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
Brandi didn’t hesitate. “Ramen. Specifically, the spicy miso from that place on Via Roma.”
“Basic and only because you can’t cook,” Trixie teased, earning a glare from Brandi. “I’m going with gelato. Pistachio. Every meal. Breakfast gelato. Lunch gelato. Dinner…well, maybe I’d branch out to stracciatella.”
I stirred my coffee, watching the swirls. “My uncle’s curry. The one with the cardamom and the secret ingredient he won’t tell me about.”
Stasia’s eyebrow lifted. “The one that nearly sent you to the ER last time?”
“That was an allergic reaction toadventure,” I defended, smiling. “Not the curry.”
They laughed, the sound light and fragile in the quiet room. For a moment, the blood, the screams, the loss, it all receded. We were just four tired women sharing bad cafeteria food and silly dreams.
As if in agreement I dropped my fork. It clattered against the tray, and I stared at it dumbly.
“You okay, Ish?” Brandi asked, leaning forward.
Forcing a smile, I blamed it on exhaustion and picked up the utensil. “Yeah. Pretty sure my hand just filed for independent contractor status. Refusing to work without better benefits than lukewarm coffee and trauma.”
They all laughed at me.
I glanced at Stasia. She was watching me, her expression unreadable. But when our eyes met, she gave me a small, reassuring nod. “It’s the caffeine crash. Makes you look like a puppet with cut strings. Eat something solid.”
I exhaled, nodding back.
Trixie launched into a story about a patient who’d tried to bribe her with homemade cookies. Brandi groaned about charting. The conversation flowed around me, warm and steady.
Stasia stood, collecting her empty mug. “I’ve got the morning handover. You three should get some sleep before the next circus arrives.”
We all rose, murmuring our goodbyes. Trixie and Brandi headed for the staff lounge, already debating whether to nap or raid the vending machine.
I lingered, watching the first hints of dawn stain the sky pink through the canteen window.
