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“I actually got some sleep on my days off,” I lie, slipping my bag onto the counter. The truth is, I didn’t sleep at all. It wasn’t guilt that kept me awake either, it never is. It was clarity. Purpose.

Patsy hands me a clipboard. “Well, we’ve got a light schedule today. Your first half of your shift is here and the second half is at the MOB. As for here, Mr. Hoarse is still on antibiotics, and Mrs. Wells is, well, still Mrs. Wells. Think you can handle her?”

I smile faintly. “I’ll try to survive.”

The first few hours pass in a blur of routine, the squeak of my sneakers on linoleum, the hiss of the blood pressure cuff, the smell of burnt coffee trailing down every hallway. Medication rounds, blood pressure checks, wound assessments, and halfhearted pleasantries with the residents. Just enough to get me through the first part of my shift and head to next door to finish it out. On the surface, I’m the picture of professionalism, efficient, attentive, empathetic. Beneath that, my thoughts churn, circling back to the shed.

Mrs. Wolfe arrives just before noon. She’s thinner than the last time I saw her a few days ago, her black dress hanging off her frame like a shroud. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes sunken with grief.

“Lydia,” she says softly, clutching her purse. “I’m so thankful they got me in on such short notice.”

“It must be your lucky day.” I smile. “I’ll get your vitals started and then page the doctor,” I reply, guiding her to a chair in the exam room. “What brings you in today?”

She hesitates, her lips trembling before she speaks. “I’ve been feeling… I don’t know how to put it, off? I’m lightheaded sometimes, and shaky. My heart feels like it’s racing even when I’m just sitting still.”

She glances at me nervously, her fingers knotting the strap of her purse.

“Okay,” I reassure her. “Anything else?” I ask.

“I thought maybe it was, I don’t know, stress? But it hasn’t gone away. It’s really starting to worry me.”

I nod, keeping my expression neutral. “Let’s take a closer look and see what’s going on.”

As she removes her scarf and rolls up her sleeve, I notice the faint tremor in her hands and the pastiness of her skin. “Have you been eating regularly?” I ask, placing the blood pressure cuff around her arm.

She shakes her head. “Not really. I just… haven’t had much of an appetite. It’s hard, you know, with everything going on.”

Grief. That word clings to the air between us, heavy and suffocating. I focus on inflating the cuff, my fingers steady as I watch the gauge. “I understand,” I say softly. “Let’s start with your blood pressure.”

As I work, the silence stretches between us, broken only by the faint hiss of the cuff deflating. Her blood pressure reads low, 92 over 58. I note it on her chart and move on to her pulse, pressing two fingers to her wrist. Her heart races beneath my touch, rapid and uneven.

“How long has your heart been doing this?” I ask.

“A few weeks, maybe,” she replies. “It comes and goes, but it’s worse at night. Sometimes it feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest.”

I let out a small hum of acknowledgment, reaching for my stethoscope. As I press it against her chest, I watch her face, her sunken eyes flickering with something that looks like guilt.

“I’ve been hearing things,” she says after a moment, her voice lowering. “The police are saying he might’ve skipped town. That maybe he owed money or got himself into trouble.”

I glance up briefly, keeping my tone even. “And what do you think?”

Her gaze flickers to mine, and she hesitates. “I think… I think he was a good man who lost his way.”

I fight the urge to scoff. He did more than lose his way. Instead, I tilt my head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Stress can cause all sorts of symptoms,” I say, wrapping the stethoscope around my neck. “But I wonder if there’s something else. Did you feel like this before he disappeared? Or only after?”

She frowns slightly, her hands gripping the edge of the exam table. “I don’t know. Maybe… maybe a little. But it got worse after he left. It’s like… I can’t stop thinking about it. About what might’ve happened to him.”

I step back, jotting down notes in her chart. “It sounds like your heart is under a lot of strain. That could be caused by anxiety. Let me ask you a couple more questions for your chart so the doctor can have as much information as possible. Have you had any chest pain? Shortness of breath?”

“Sometimes,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Hmm.” I tap the pen against the clipboard thoughtfully.

Her face crumples slightly, and she looks down at her lap. “I just want to feel normal again. But how can I when everyone keeps asking questions about him? Where he went, what he did…” Her voice trails off, and a tear slips down her cheek. She brushes it away quickly like it shames her to cry in front of me.

“I’m sure he had his reasons for… being the way he was,” I say carefully, my tone soft. “People don’t just act out for no reason.”

Her head snaps up, confusion flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”