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I stared at him, wondering what in the world he thought he was doing. I wanted him to leave. The room was totally crowded with him in it, and I wasn’t going to keep crying with him sitting here.

But then I realized that he probably wanted to make sure I was okay. I guess it would be weird if he just handed me a washcloth and took off, like “Enjoy your meltdown.”

I let out a resigned breath and pressed the warm towel into my eyes. It did make me feel better.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

I sniffled and nodded, looking anywhere other than his face.

The legs of his black scrubs were inched up and I could see his gray socks. They had tiny brown dogs on them. I guess he was a novelty sock kind of guy.

He had on a black smartwatch. Toned freckled arms like he worked out. A stethoscope draped around his neck, his hospital badge clipped to his shirt. When I got to his eyes, he was gazing back at me. A five-o’clock shadow, a full head of thick reddish-brown hair. He wasn’t bad looking. Like, at all.

I distrusted good-looking men on principle. Nick was good-looking, and look where that got me.

His eyes were red, and I wondered if his day was going about as well as mine. Maybe he’d come in here for a break too.

“So,” he said. “Do you come here often?”

I let out a dry laugh at the joke. “Best place to cry in the whole hospital,” I said, my voice raspy.

“I used to like the stairwell at Memorial West.”

I nodded. “Also a solid choice. A little too echoey for my use, but a nice supply closet alternative if you’re claustrophobic.”

“On-call rooms are good too,” he suggested.

“Too far from the ER. I like the sob closet. Close enough for a spontaneous midday breakdown.”

“My favorite kind,” he said tiredly.

So he had come here to hide.

He paused a moment. “I’m Jacob,” he said.

“Briana.”

Then we went quiet again.

There was something comfortable about the silence, a kind of understanding in it.

It reminded me of a backpacking trip I’d taken a few years ago. Nick hadn’t wanted to go, so I was alone. I knew only too well now why he didn’t want to go. His favorite time to cheat was when I was on a mountain somewhere without cell service—but anyway. I’d been on the Superior Hiking Trail right after dawn, and ran into a bear on the path. We both paused and just stood there, looking at each other. Him with his bear claws and bear teeth. Me with my bear spray. But neither of us moved to hurt the other, and I couldn’t explain it other than to say that the bear and I agreed to be harmless to each other and share the space. That’s what this felt like. A quiet, unspoken truce.

Maybe he wasn’t so bad. He didn’t look like an awful person. He looked tired. Sort of vulnerable.

“Is he someone you know?” he asked quietly. “The dialysis patient?”

I let out a slow breath. “My little brother,” I said.

“What caused it?” he asked.

“An autoimmune disorder. Came out of nowhere.”

We sat there quietly. Him against his door and me on my TP box.

“You know, it could be worse,” he said after a moment. “You can live for decades on dialysis.”

I was instantly snapped back into the room.