She hands me a coffee, and I thank her and take a sip, careful not to pull at my split skin.
“Lacey made it.”
Lacey. Fourteen, sharp as a scalpel, and already better at coffee than most of the hospital café staff.
“Thanks.”
The first sip is warm, bittersweet, and exactly right. Ree just shrugs and walks away, but her worry lingers long after she’s gone. It lingers not just because she sees too much, but because she might act on it: report it, confront Adrian, or say the wrong thing to the right person. Adrian wouldn’t handle that well, and I would be the one left to live through whatever came after. It settles between us like a quiet, persistent pressure that doesn’t need words.
An hour later, the caffeine has finally started to work its way through my system, dulling the edges just enough for me to function. Enough to pretend.
Rounds begin. Nurses. Orderlies. Patients.
The corridor lights are too bright in that clinical way that makes everything feel slightly unreal. Outside, rain hits the windows in steady sheets, softening the world beyond the glass into grey movement. Inside, the emergency department carries on regardless.
Patients wait in triage. Others are already settled into curtained cubicles, family members leaning close and speaking in low voices, some people sleeping through the noise as if the hospital itself has become something they can block out.
It almost feels calm. Almost. Though I never say it out loud. I’m not stupid enough to tempt fate like that.
As I move further down the corridor, one cubicle catches my attention. The curtains are still drawn, and I slow instinctively,picking up the clipboard to scan for the name. I check the time, and something in me lifts.
Lunch break.
I tell Ree I’m stepping away, grab my food from the fridge, and head toward the cubicle with the first genuine smile I’ve managed all morning.
When I pull back the curtain, my favorite patient is sitting upright in bed, quietly reading.
“Good morning to my most adoring patient ever,” I say, my smile widening before I remember my lip and quickly wipe at it before Marge has a chance to notice.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Come here and give me a hug, honey.” Marge opens her arms without hesitation.
I lean in carefully, mindful of her lines and her frailty, and she hugs me with surprising strength. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask, pulling back and dragging a chair close to the bed, setting my lunch down near her knees.
“Oh, I feel ancient today.”
“Marge, you say that every day.”
“And every day I’m right.”
Her laugh fills the small space between us. I unwrap my sandwich, letting myself settle into the rhythm of it. Talking with Marge has always been easy. I met her six months ago when she first came into the hospital. Cancer had already taken root by then, but it hadn’t taken her spirit; she fights it in a way that feels almost defiant, like refusing to shrink is its own kind of treatment. Somehow, we just clicked. Nearly ninety, sharp as anything, and still managing to feel like the youngest person in the room when she laughs.
Marge’s voice pulls me back.
“You know what this reminds me of?”
I glance up. “Nope.”
“Campbell River,” she says, her eyes already drifting toward the window. “That’s where I grew up.”
Something in my chest tightens as I watch her smile at something only she can see. “That’s where I met my husband.”
I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that feels less heavy. “I bet he was handsome. Especially if he managed to marry you.”
“Oh, he was handsome all right,” she says, smiling to herself. “And he knew it.”
A quiet laugh slips out of me.
