Page 2

ONE

“Is there anything I should know before you take off, Lydia?” Patsy asks, setting her purse on the nurse’s station counter. Her voice is casual, but her tired eyes glance over the charts like she’s already halfway through her shift.

I stretch as I rise from the creaky chair, my muscles stiff from the long night. The fluorescent lights overhead glare against the stark white walls, making me squint. “Not much,” I reply, my words echoing softly in the quiet hallway. “Mr. Hoarse is out cold. He’s been quiet all night.”

“Wow, that’s a change for once.”

I nod. “It was a nice, welcome change from his constant moaning.” I take a sip of my now-cold coffee. “Mrs. Wells had her usual complaints but nothing serious.”

“Well, it’s nice to know some people don’t change,” Patsy grumbles, which makes me laugh.

Putnam County Memorial isn’t much to look at. It’s a federally funded critical access hospital that’s quietly become something closer to a long-term care facility over the years. We don’t have the facilities for surgeries, emergencies, or traumas. Those cases are sent to the larger hospital just outside of town. What we do have are beds, food service, and a small nursing staff. I’m one of the five registered nurses on rotation. Alongside a couple of doctors who split their time between here and the medical office building next door. They’re mostly on call, but it’s everything the small town of Hurricane needs.

The nurses’ station looks like a typical station, neatly stacked medical charts, computers, and the faint antiseptic tang in the air. From down the hall, the lingering scent of burnt coffee wafts out of the breakroom. I glance at the clock, each tick seems louder in the emptiness like it’s counting down to something I’d rather not face.

“Good. Then get out of here,” Patsy says. “If you hurry, you might catch the second church service.” She winks as she starts unpacking her bag.

Church.

The word lingers in the air like smoke, harsh and heavy.

“Maybe next time,” I mutter, knowing there won’t be a next time. I haven’t stepped inside that church in years, and I don’t plan to anytime soon.

“Well, you know what they say. God loves you no matter where you worship.” Patsy’s voice is light, teasing.

I glance at her, my smile tight. “Is that what they say?”

She shrugs. “Hell if I know. You’re the preacher’s daughter, not me.”

Her words sting and I swallow the bitterness rising in my throat. If she only knew.

“Have a good shift, Patsy. See you next week.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head for the door.

Stepping outside, the crisp autumn air hits me like a cleanse. Not the surface kind. This is deeper. Sharper. It cuts through me, peeling back the hours I spent pretending to be someone else. I let the cold burn my throat and anchor me. The night shift clings to me in invisible ways. The lingering smell of nitrile gloves, a particular exhaustion that comes from twelve hours of keeping other people alive. Well, that’s a bit of a stretch for Putman County.

The streets are lined with trees in hues of gold and crimson, their leaves swirling gently in the morning breeze. Soon, winter will strip them bare, and the town will settle into its bleak, snowbound silence. I pull my sweater tighter and glance across the street. Calvary Baptist Church of Hurricane looms tall across the street, its whitewashed exterior practically glowing in the sunlight. Stained-glass windows glint like fractured jewels, painting fleeting colors across the faces of the congregation filing out of the double doors.

They’re laughing, hugging, shaking hands, young children darting around their parents while older kids lounge on the steps, lost in their chatter. It looks idyllic. Peaceful.

If only they knew.

To most, that building is a sanctuary. A beacon of faith. A refuge in a chaotic world. It’s where people come to heal their wounds, and to feel less alone. To me it’s anything but a place of refuge. It’s a graveyard of illusions full of sins and lies. But lying is a sin, isn’t it?

My father stood at that pulpit for years, preaching God’s love and compassion, spinning sermons that wrapped the congregation in hope. But behind the closed doors of our house, he was something else entirely. A man of wrath. A drunk. A tyrant who broke more than he ever built.

I look at the church and see what it truly is. A façade. Beneath the white paint and stained glass, lies the rot of hypocrisy, the kind that festers in darkness and bleeds into every corner of this town. Monsters preach from the pulpit. I’ve heard their false gospels.

As I watch the congregation disperse, familiar faces emerge from the crowd, though some are strangers, newer parishioners, perhaps. Still, I wouldn’t know how long they’ve been members of the church since it’s been years since I set foot in that building myself. Not since right before my father’s accident.

Mrs. Wolfe steps into the sunlight, her black dress and matching scarf stark against the bright morning. She looks like a widow in mourning, and in a way, she is. Her husband disappeared a month ago, leaving behind only questions. He ran Wolfe’s Market, a cornerstone of the community for generations. His great-grandfather opened it back when Hurricane was little more than a cluster of farmsteads, and somehow, it survived the decades, weathering the ebb and flow of the town’s fortunes. But survival hasn’t been easy. Not with a Walmart squatting just ten miles down the highway, its fluorescent aisles siphoning off the younger crowd and budget-conscious families. To most of the residents in this town, who have roots deeper than most of the trees on this street, it wasn’t just a store. It was a place where neighbors exchanged more than groceries. News, recipes, and occasional harmless gossip flowed freely in the narrow aisles. The older folks, the loyal ones, still bought their bread and milk at Wolfe’s, out of habit as much as principle. But loyalty only goes so far. Mrs. Wolfe had complained to anyone who’d listen that the store had been struggling for years.

Without Mr. Wolfe at the helm, people wonder how long it’ll stay open.

Next, Peggy Smith emerges, wrapping Mrs. Wolfe in a hug. In their grief, the two women are linked, though Peggy’s loss feels more final. Her husband, the town’s only OBGYN, was found dead in the woods three months ago, a heart attack, they said.

I know better.

I look away from her before the memory finds me.