Her eyes go distant. "Watching girls who never should've been there die. Holding hands. Passing meds. Naming bruises no one charted." Her fingers twitch, remembering an IV line. "Elenawas… a favorite. If you can call it that. She was loud. Made the others laugh. Called me 'Nurse Sunshine' when I was being bossy."
The kind of people who wore white coats at a place like that make my stomach turn. "Your father put you there?" I ask before I can stop myself.
She flinches as if I slapped her. Spine straightening, shutters slamming down. "We're not talking about him." Her expression shuts down.
"Okay," I say, backing off fast. Pushing her here, now, feels wrong. Like kicking at a door that's already splintering. Her gaze sharpens, wary. Waiting for the interrogation that usually follows when someone smells blood in this world.
I give her something else instead. "You know the first time I saw someone from my old life?" She blinks. Not the turn she expected. "I was at a grocery store. Right after I got out. Thought I was doing the 'normal citizen' thing. Buying cereal. Standing there, staring at twelve versions of the same damn flakes, wondering why the fuck there were so many choices for something that all tastes like cardboard." The memory is so clear I can smell the cold aisle. "This guy comes around the corner with a kid in the cart. Takes me a second to recognize him. We were deployed together. I knew him with a buzz cut and sand in his eyes. All I saw was a worn-out dad with apples, diapers, and a kid in a Spider-Man T-shirt."
"What did you do?"
"Ducked behind the Cheerios like a coward. Couldn't make my feet move. Couldn't say his name. Because if I did, we'd have to acknowledge all the shit between 'then' and 'now.' And I didn't want to see my war in his eyes. Or my absence in his." She stares at me as if I've handed her something fragile. "I still think about it," I say. "That missed moment."
"In a grocery store," she says faintly.
"In a grocery store. Sometimes the ghosts show up where you stock the bread."
A small sound escapes her. Half laugh, half sob. I take a step closer, leaving space between us. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her.
"I'm not asking for a confession, Sloane. I just… saw your face when she said Mercer. And when she said Elena. I know what that feels like. Having your old life reach into your new one without permission."
Her eyes shine. "It's not the same."
"No. It's yours. Which means you get to decide when you tell me everything. I'm just…" I trail off. "I'm here. That's all."
She looks at me for a long time. Measuring. Weighing. "I knew her sister once," she repeats, sealing the version she can live with right now. "Now she's here, and I didn't even recognize her. What does that say about me?"
"That you've seen too much. Tonight, you kept going anyway."
She shakes her head. "I need to get back. They still need me."
I nod and step aside, letting her pass. My fingers brush her wrist as she goes. She doesn't pull away.
In the doorway, she pauses and looks over her shoulder. "Knox?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
Her mouth curves, brittle-sweet. "Thanks for not hiding behind the Cheerios this time."
A rough breath that almost turns into a laugh escapes me. "Anytime."
Then she's gone, swallowed back into triage, blankets, and second chances. I lean against the wall, let my head thump back, stare at the ceiling. Nurse Mercer. Every thread we pull leads closer to her.
By the time we get home, the sky's graying around the edges. The ride is quiet. Sloane's arms are tight around my waist, cheekpressed between my shoulder blades. Usually she's looser back there, hands curious, tracing seams on my cut, fingers sneaking under my shirt when she thinks I'm not paying attention. Tonight she just holds on like I'm the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting.
At the house, she doesn't wait for me to take her helmet off. She yanks it free herself and is through the front door before I've even swung my leg over. By the time I get inside, lights are on, her shoes kicked off by the mat, and she's already at the kitchen sink. I find her scrubbing her hands like she can erase skin.
"Hey," I say softly.
She doesn't look up. "I can't get the smell off. It's in my head. I know it's in my head, but—" She scrubs harder. Her knuckles turn pink. The water is so hot there's steam.
I move in cautiously. Slide in behind her. Wrap my hands over hers, stilling the frantic motion. "Enough, nurse. You did your job. You don't gotta sand yourself down too."
Her shoulders shake once. Just once. "She called me Mercer. Like that's who I still am."
"Maybe to her, that's who you were when you kept her sister from dying alone. Could be worse things to be remembered for."
"Elena died anyway."
