Braid. Elastic. Tie it off. Next step. Keep moving.
In the hallway, I pause outside the master bedroom. The door half-closed, a line of darkness sliced by a thin bar of dawn light. I tell myself to keep walking. Instead, I push the door open. The room is all him.
Knox is on his side, one arm flung across the empty half of the bed, fingers resting in the dip where I usually sleep. Covers twisted around his waist, bare back a broad solid line in the dim. Tension in his shoulders even now, as though his body doesn't remember how to fully let go.
He'd looked so raw last night, standing in our doorway watching me pack myself up and leave. With anger, hurt, and confusion knotted behind his eyes. And fear. Only for a second, but it had been there. Fear I'd recognized because I'd put it there, every time I shut a door between us instead of opening my mouth.
I cross to his side on bare feet, careful with the floorboards. His nightstand is cluttered with the small bits of his life; his gun, switchblade, a book Maggie gave him on trauma that he pretends not to read, and a crooked clay dish Ruby made during a craft night. She gave it to him straight-faced and said it was "abstract art." He kept it anyway. I nudge them aside to clear a space.
The notepad and pen are shoved halfway under the book. I slide them out to write him a note.
Emergency call. Pop-up clinic downtown. Didn't want to wake you. We can talk later. Sloane
I stare at that last line. The we feels optimistic, when I've spent months building walls brick by brick just to hide behind them. I almost add I'm sorry. The pen hovers. I write the words, stare at them, then scratch them out until the paper fibers fray.
Beneath it, smaller: Please eat something. The plea makes my eyes sting.
I fold the page once and lay it by his hand, close enough that his fingers brush the edge. He shifts in his sleep, mumbling my name, maybe. Too slurred to tell. I ease back from the bed.
By the front door, my hands are trembling. I grab the keys from the bowl, a jacket, and am outside before I can talk myself into anything different. The air bites straight through the hoodie. The sky is still mostly dark, just the barest light along the horizon, painting the world in muted gray.
I lock the door behind me. The truck sits in the driveway where Knox left it last night; my car is still at the clubhouse.
My stomach turns over, tight and loose at the same time. I swallow against the sourness coating my throat. But staying would have cracked me open. I turn the key and tell myself I'm just going to work. That this isn't cowardice. The engine drowns out the lie.
Downtown is scarred. The closer I get to the Holloway district, the worse it looks. Barricades block off the blast site. Flashing lights rotate lazily, coloring smoke-streaked buildings in alternating red and blue.
News vans cluster beyond police tape, satellite dishes pointed accusingly at the morning sky. Reporters in too-crisp coats, the words Breaking News scrolling endlessly.
I force myself not to look at the building and fix my eyes forward. Past the blackened windows, past the warped metal near the garage entrance, and the section of lower wall that buckled outward. I follow hand-painted signs toward the pop-up clinic. Someone's taped them along the fencing. PERMITTED ENTRY → TRIAGE → FAMILY CHECK-IN.
The clinic is a cluster of white tents in the parking lot of a shuttered department store. Floodlights on portable stands turn asphalt into a harsh stage. Generators hum. EMT rigs and volunteer vans are parked in crooked lines with doors hanging open, and the insides chaotic but purposeful.
I park and sit with my hands on the wheel. There’s a sour taste in my mouth from too much adrenaline and not enough food. My stomach rolls at the mix of gasoline, smoke, and antiseptic already heavy in the air.
Just get out of the truck. You know how to do this. You've done this your whole life.
And that's exactly why my hands won't stop shaking. I push the door open. Cold hits first. Then the noise.
"Where do you want this?"
"We're full on green tags. Redirect to secondary."
"Doc, he's hypotensive again—"
"Somebody get more blankets. These people are freezing!"
I duck into the main triage tent, canvas flapping behind me in the wind. Inside, there are cots in rows. IV poles stand in clusters. Portable monitors beep. The smell is a sharp cocktail of sweat, blood, alcohol wipes, and coffee that's been sitting too long on a hot plate.
"Turner! You're on station three. Grab a vest."
I turn toward Morales, stocky and brisk, dark hair piled under a scrub cap, clipboard against her chest. We did a volunteer run together last year during a chemical plant incident.
"Sorry I'm just getting here," I say, sliding into the orange emergency vest. SLOANE T. RN across the front in black marker. "I was on a different call most of the night. Got here as fast as I could."
Morales waves it off, already scanning the tent. "You good with triage? We're cycling fast. Or treatment?"
"Triage is fine."
