If you don't terrify people, what's the point.

Night shift starts loud.

Not dramatically loud. Not cinematically loud.

Real loud.

The kind that gets under your skin before you’ve even clocked in and settles somewhere behind your eyes for the next twelve hours.

Phones ring before anyone has fully claimed a workstation. Monitors chirp from half-open rooms in competing rhythms. Wheels rattle over tile. Secure-message alerts ping from computers across the central station. The massive electronic tracking board mounted above it all keeps refreshing as patients move from waiting to triage to rooms, colored icons shifting faster than anyone can follow.

Someone in triage is asking for a blanket while already wearing one.

Someone else wants to know whether hospital policy technically prohibits smoking near the ambulance bay or only inside it.

The board is already half full.

It isn’t even seven.

And somehow, morale remains offensively high.

That is the thing about nights.

Day shift has administrators. Visitors. Meetings that somehow could not have been emails despite PTMC’s best efforts to eliminate nearly every piece of paper from the building.

Nights have caffeine, questionable coping mechanisms, and a department-wide agreement that anything said after two in the morning cannot legally be held against you.

Half feral.

Half functional.

Loyal enough to compensate for both.

The best shift in the hospital, according to everyone currently working it and several people who should probably know better.

You stand at one of the workstations at the central station and perform the same ritual you do at the beginning of every shift.

Badge tapped against the reader.

Patient list loaded. Secure chat opened.

Then the pockets.

Penlight. Trauma shears. Hemostats. Three pens, because apparently the digital revolution has yet to eliminate the need for people to steal yours.

Hair tie. Granola bar. Phone charger. Another phone charger with the wrong connector for your own phone.

Across the station, Lena watches you pat down your scrub pockets one by one.

“One day, I’m going to search you at the beginning of shift,” Lena says as she scrolls through assignments on the tablet in her hand, “and find an entire urgent care clinic.”

You tuck another pen beside your penlight. “Only if you get a warrant.”

Lena snorts softly and keeps scrolling.

From Lena, that counts as open affection.

Beside you, Ellis swivels slightly in her chair while waiting for her patient list to populate.

“You know supplies are available inside the hospital,” Ellis says.

You glance toward her. “That’s propaganda.”

Ellis gestures toward the supply room across the department. “There is an entire room.”

You point toward the badge-controlled door. “A locked room.”

Ellis gestures toward the badge reader. “You have access.”

You give her a look. “Until my badge decides I don’t.”

Ellis considers that for a moment before nodding. “Fair.”

Lena looks between the two of you. “Do not encourage her.”

Ellis turns back toward her monitor. “I’m not encouraging anything. I’m documenting pathology.”

You settle your stethoscope around your neck. “And yet, when your phone hits four percent at three in the morning, who do you come crawling to?”

Ellis looks over her shoulder at you. “You.”

You spread your hands. “Exactly.”

Ellis narrows her eyes. “That does not make this healthy.”

“It makes me useful,” you reply.

The answer comes easily.

It usually does.

You don’t spend much time considering why you like it so much.

The ambulance bay doors hiss open before anyone can respond.

Shen walks through, carrying a cardboard drink tray in both hands, with the solemn expression of a man transporting an organ for transplant.

“I bring offerings,” Shen announces.

A cheer rises around the central station.

Crus immediately abandons the workstation he has been pretending to log into and intercepts him.

“That’s my attending,” Crus says, reaching toward the tray.

Shen shifts it out of his reach. “You’re not my resident.”

Crus follows the coffee with his eyes. “Labels are divisive.”

Shen hands him a cup anyway. “They are literally how residency works.”

Crus accepts it reverently. “I knew you loved me.”

“At best, I tolerate you consistently,” Shen replies.

Crus lifts the coffee toward him in salute. “That’s basically love on nights.”

Ellis raises one hand from behind her monitor. “Can someone emotionally intubate room six for me?”

Without looking up from the tablet, Lena answers, “No, but you can medically discharge him.”

Ellis lets her hand drop. “He wants another CT.”

Lena finally looks at her. “He had one.”

“He would like a different result,” Ellis explains.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

It comes easier here.

That might be part of why you stay.

Shen steps around Crus and holds out the last drink toward you.

Iced shaken espresso. Brown sugar. Oat milk. Perfect.

You take it from him, condensation already gathering against your fingers.

“You remembered,” you say.

Shen gives you a tired look. “I remember everything. It’s exhausting.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” you tell him as you take your first sip.

Crus presses one hand dramatically against his chest. “Unbelievable.”

“You’ve had the title revoked twice this week,” you remind him.

Crus points toward you with his coffee. “For political reasons.”

You point back at him. “For stealing my trauma shears.”

“I returned them,” Crus argues.

You stare at him. “After three days.”

Crus lowers his cup slightly. “Still returned.”

From her workstation, Ellis lifts one finger. “Character growth.”

The ambulance bay doors open again.

Jack Abbot walks through them in black scrubs, his dark jacket still on and a travel mug in one hand.

His eyes lift toward the central station.

Then stop.

Four people are standing around a tray of contraband coffee.

Crus looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Ellis has turned sideways in her chair despite the unfinished note glowing on her monitor.

Shen is distributing caffeine like a street pharmacist.

You are drinking something that definitely did not come from the physician lounge.

Jack slows.

“No,” Jack says.

Nobody has actually asked him anything.

That makes you smile.

Shen looks over. “Good evening to you too.”

Jack stops beside the station. “Whatever this is, the answer is no.”

Crus glances around theatrically. “That’s a pretty hostile way to enter your workplace.”

“You’re usually the reason I have to enter it that way,” Jack replies.

Ellis turns fully around in her chair. “That feels like favoritism.”

Jack looks at her. “You want equal blame?”

Ellis smiles. “I want equal opportunity.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “You’ve had plenty.”

Shen takes a leisurely sip of his coffee. “You know, most attendings appreciate strong team morale.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Most attendings don’t supervise this.”

You lower your espresso. “We prefer ‘dynamic interdisciplinary environment.’”

Jack’s eyes move to you.

There is a beat.

Not a charged one.

Just the familiar moment when Jack realizes you have decided to join whatever nonsense is happening instead of helping him stop it.

“You’re a resident,” Jack reminds you.

You nod solemnly. “Thank you. I was wondering why they kept scheduling me.”

Ellis makes a choking sound behind you. Crus turns away and coughs into his fist. Shen stares determinedly into his coffee.

Jack closes his eyes for one long second.

Lena watches the entire exchange with the profound serenity of someone who has accepted that intervention would only prolong it.

When Jack opens his eyes again, his attention settles on you.

“Anything else?” he asks.

You consider him. “Not at this time.”

Jack nods once. “Good.”

He starts to move past the station.

Crus waits approximately half a second.

“Abbot,” Crus calls after him.

Jack stops but does not turn around.

Crus grins into his coffee. “We missed you too.”

Jack remains still for another beat. Then he lifts one hand over his shoulder and keeps walking.

Ellis watches him go. “I think that means he loves us.”

Shen sits down at an open workstation. “Deeply.”

“It looked threatening,” you point out.

Crus takes another drink. “That’s his love language.”

From ten feet away, Jack calls, “I can still hear you.”

You turn toward him. “That sounds like a design flaw.”

Jack looks back.

This time, you see it.

Barely.

The corner of his mouth moves.

Then Lena claps her hands once.

“Alright,” Lena says, raising her voice over the department. “Before the four of you get yourselves reassigned to separate hospitals.”

You turn toward her along with everyone else.

Jack returns to the central station and taps his badge against the nearest workstation to pull up the department board.

The change in everyone is immediate.

The joking doesn’t disappear because Jack demands it.

It disappears because shift is starting.

Because this is the other thing about nights.

You can make Jack contemplate murder at seven twenty-eight and trust him with somebody’s life at seven twenty-nine.

Jack scans the electronic board once.

“Alright, night crew,” he says.

Around the station, chairs turn. Conversations stop. Mateo leans in from triage. Bridget appears from one of the medication rooms. Ellis abandons her unfinished note long enough to stand.

Everyone crowds toward the central station.

You end up between Shen and Crus, espresso held safely above shoulder height.

Jack surveys the group.

His expression is already threatening to betray him.

“We are the Night Crawlers,” Jack begins, lifting his voice just enough to carry. “We deal with the weirdest and the wildest because—”

The rest of the department answers him in one voice.

“We are the weirdest and wildest of them all!” everyone shouts.

A visitor near the elevators visibly startles.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s right,” Jack says. “Now go get some.”

The Night Crawlers answer with a collective, “HOOHAH!”

The shout bounces off tile, glass, and every remaining shred of professional dignity in the department.

Then everyone scatters.

Phones ring. Secure messages begin arriving. Patient assignments populate across screens. The electronic board refreshes again. A red icon appears beside a new triage patient.

Crus accidentally picks up Shen’s coffee.

Shen takes it directly back out of his hand without breaking stride.

Within thirty seconds, the Night Crawlers are no longer a ridiculous collection of overcaffeinated healthcare workers tormenting their senior attending at the nurses’ station.

They’re working.

And Jack, for all his complaints, is right there in the middle of them.

You take one last drink of your espresso and pull up your first patient’s chart.

You hadn’t expected residency to give you this.

Not this department. Not these people. Not a place where someone knows your coffee order, someone else knows when you haven’t eaten, and four separate people will insult you while helping before you ever manage to ask.

Family feels dramatic.

So does belonging.

You’ve never been particularly good at trusting either one.

But when Lena calls your name from across the station, you’re already locking the computer and moving before she finishes the sentence.

Useful first.

By 8:14 p.m., you have already loaned out two phone chargers.

One belongs to Mateo, who promises that, for the third consecutive shift, he will remember to bring his own tomorrow.

You don’t believe him.

The other belongs to the mother of a college freshman in South Eight, whose phone is hovering at two percent while she tries to coordinate with her husband three states away.

You hand it over before she finishes asking.

“Keep it until discharge,” you tell her as you plug the cord into the outlet beside the bed. “I have another one.”

The woman looks from the charger to you. “You carry extras?”

You straighten from the outlet. “I have a problem.”

Her son lowers the gauze pressed against the laceration above his eyebrow and looks pointedly toward your scrub pockets.

“Do you have snacks in there too?” he asks.

You glance at him. “I do. But I’m not rewarding you until I know whether I need to put your eyebrow back together.”

His eyes widen slightly. “That sounds worse when you say it like that.”

You smile. “Then stop moving so I can tell you it isn’t.”

His mother laughs.

The kid grins despite himself.

Good.

He had been trying much too hard not to look scared when you walked in.

You examine the laceration again, gently tilting his chin toward the overhead light.

His mother watches your face. “What do you think?”

You study the wound. “I think his modeling career may have to wait approximately seven to ten days.”

His eyes widen. “Wait. Am I going to scar?”

You glance at him. “You were actually worried about the modeling thing?”

He gives you a bewildered look. “I have a face people like.”

His mother closes her eyes.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Let’s focus on keeping it that way,” you tell him.

By the time you leave the room, he is considerably less nervous, and his mother is smiling.

You count that as progress.

Your pager vibrates against your waistband before you make it three steps down the hall.

You pull it free and glance at the display.

North Four.

You clip it back into place and change direction.

Mrs. Keating is sitting upright in the chair beside the bed when you enter. Her husband is propped against the pillows with EKG leads already attached across his chest and an expression suggesting the entire emergency department has personally inconvenienced him.

“I told her this was ridiculous,” Mr. Keating says as you approach the bed.

Mrs. Keating turns toward him. “You said you were having chest pain.”

Mr. Keating shakes his head. “Pressure.”

“You were holding your chest,” his wife reminds him.

He gestures vaguely toward his shirt. “I was adjusting this.”

Mrs. Keating looks at you.

You look at her.

Some conversations do not require words.

You pull the rolling stool closer to the bed.

“Mr. Keating, I need you to help me with something,” you say as you sit.

His expression turns suspicious. “What?”

“I need you to start from the beginning,” you say. “Tell me exactly what happened, even if you think it was nothing.”

His arms loosen slightly.

Behind him, Mrs. Keating nods approvingly.

Mr. Keating catches her.

“Don’t encourage her,” he mutters.

Mrs. Keating folds her hands over her purse. “Someone has to.”

You turn toward the wall-mounted computer and tap your badge against the reader to unlock his chart.

He does.

Eventually.

Pressure after carrying groceries upstairs. Shortness of breath. Six minutes. Better with rest.

Your attention sharpens.

The joking falls away.

You work through the rest of his history while entering it directly into the chart.

Radiation. Nausea. Diaphoresis. Cardiac history. Medications. Family history.

You don’t love the story.

Not enough to panic.

Enough that the prickle at the back of your brain refuses to settle.

The technician finishes the EKG and sends the tracing electronically into his chart.

You pull it onto the screen.

Mr. Keating studies your face. “So am I dying?”

Mrs. Keating immediately smacks his arm.

You keep your attention on the tracing. “You are currently complaining, which I consider reassuring.”

His mouth twitches.

You enlarge the lateral leads.

“But chest pressure with exertion buys you the full workup whether you enjoy being here or not,” you add.

Mr. Keating sighs. “I don’t.”

“I had gathered that,” you tell him.

Mrs. Keating points toward you. “I like her.”

Mr. Keating looks at his wife. “Of course you do.”

You order the first round of labs, repeat vitals, continuous monitoring, and another EKG.

Then you look at the tracing again.

Something bothers you.

You just haven’t decided how much yet.

“Someone will be back in a few minutes,” you tell them as you stand.

Back at the central station, you tap your badge against an open workstation and pull his EKG up again.

You stare at it.

Then lean closer.

Ellis rolls past behind you on a stool.

“You’re making the face,” Ellis says as she catches sight of you.

You keep studying the tracing. “What face?”

Ellis hooks one foot against the floor and rolls herself backward until she is beside you.

“The one where you’re arguing with an EKG,” she explains.

“I’m not arguing with it,” you tell her.

Ellis studies your expression. “You’re squinting at it like it insulted your mother.”

You point toward the tracing. “Tell me I’m overthinking this.”

Ellis leans toward the monitor.

Her teasing expression disappears.

After several seconds, she tilts her head.

“Maybe,” Ellis says slowly. “But I’d show Abbot.”

You exhale quietly. “Yeah. I thought so.”

You already knew that.

Confidence matters in residency.

Knowing where your confidence ends matters more.

You glance across the department.

Jack is nowhere near the central station.

Of course he isn’t.

You unclip your pager, type in the callback number for the central station, and send the page.

Then you turn back toward the EKG.

Less than a minute later, Jack appears from the direction of trauma.

“You paged?” Jack asks as he stops beside you.

You turn the monitor slightly toward him. “North Four. Sixty-three-year-old male. Exertional chest pressure relieved by rest.”

Jack looks at the tracing rather than at you. “What don’t you like?”

You point toward the lateral leads. “That.”

Jack folds one arm across his chest.

“That’s very specific,” he says dryly.

You glance toward him. “I was building suspense.”

Jack turns his head and looks at you.

You keep your expression neutral.

He gestures toward the monitor. “Try again.”

You point more precisely toward the tracing and walk him through what you’re seeing.

Jack listens.

He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t finish the thought for you. He lets you explain your reasoning from beginning to end before reaching for the mouse.

Jack pulls up an older EKG from six months earlier and tiles the two tracings side by side.

You lean toward the monitor.

There it is.

Subtle.

But different.

“Okay,” you murmur as you compare the two.

Jack glances toward you. “Okay, what?”

You point toward the change. “Okay, I like it even less now.”

Jack nods once. “Better.”

You glance at him. “Better that I hate it?”

Jack keeps his attention on the screen. “Better answer.”

You exhale through your nose.

He clicks back into the current encounter and reviews the orders you already placed.

“Repeat EKG in fifteen,” Jack says. “Keep him monitored. If there’s progression or the first troponin gives us a reason, we call cardiology.”

You nod toward the orders already visible on the screen. “Already done.”

Jack scans them once more. “Good.”

You lean back slightly. “Careful.”

Jack pauses. “What?”

You lift your eyebrows. “You keep complimenting me like that, I’m going to get confident.”

Jack’s expression stays flat. “Won’t happen again.”

You stare at him for a beat.

“Really supportive educational environment,” you mutter.

Jack starts walking away. “Put it in my evaluation.”

You turn back toward the monitor, fighting a smile.

Ellis rolls back into your line of sight from the opposite side of the station.

“You make it too easy for him,” she says.

You turn back toward the monitor. “He’d be unbearable either way.”

Ellis considers that. “Fair.”

Your pager vibrates against your waistband again.

You glance down at the number, lock the workstation, and stand.

The night keeps moving.

Everything else later.

By a little after nine, the board has filled enough that open beds have become a theoretical concept.

North is full.

Central is close.

South has one room turning over and three patients waiting for it.

Trauma is quiet, which everyone knows better than to comment on out loud.

You’re standing at the central workstation reviewing repeat labs when Mateo appears at your elbow with the expression of someone bringing you a problem he has already decided belongs to somebody else.

Mateo holds out a tablet. “North Six says his abdominal pain is from a curse.”

You look up from the monitor. “A curse.”

Mateo nods. “His exact word.”

Ellis turns slightly in her chair. “Did we establish who cursed him?”

Mateo glances toward her. “His ex-husband.”

Crus looks up from the workstation across from you. “Honestly, that increases the likelihood.”

Lena walks past without slowing. “Crus, stop contributing to the differential.”

Crus turns toward her. “I’m considering psychosocial factors.”

“You’re considering unemployment,” Lena replies.

You push back from the workstation.

Mateo offers you the tablet again. “You want him?”

You take it from him. “Obviously.”

Ellis points toward you as you start away. “Ask about the curse.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Clinically relevant questions only.”

Ellis settles back toward her computer. “Coward.”

You’re halfway to North when footsteps fall into pace beside you.

Jack glances at the patient information displayed on the tablet in your hand. “What do we have?”

You scroll through the triage note. “Forty-eight-year-old male. Acute upper abdominal pain. Sudden onset about an hour after dinner. Nausea, no vomiting. Vitals are stable.”

Jack keeps walking beside you. “Dinner?”

You scroll a little farther.

Then stop.

Jack notices.

“What?” he asks.

You look at the screen again to make sure you read it correctly. “Hot wings.”

Jack waits.

You scroll once more.

“Thirty of them,” you add.

Jack’s face doesn’t change. “Good start.”

You glance toward him. “For the differential or the poor life choices?”

Jack reaches the doorway to North Six and pulls the curtain aside. “Yes.”

You bite back a smile as you follow him in.

The patient is curled on his side with one arm wrapped around his abdomen. A man sitting in the chair beside the bed looks considerably more embarrassed than the person actually wearing the hospital gown.

You sanitize your hands while Jack steps toward the bedside.

“Mr. Dalton, I’m Dr. Abbot,” Jack says. He gestures briefly toward you. “This is one of our residents. She’s working with me tonight. Tell us what’s going on.”

The patient exhales dramatically. “My ex-husband cursed me.”

Beside him, his boyfriend closes his eyes.

You glance at Jack.

Jack does not glance back.

You know better than to interpret that as proof he isn’t amused.

Jack pulls the rolling stool closer to the bed. “When did the pain start?”

“About eight,” Mr. Dalton answers.

You move toward the wall-mounted computer and open his chart. “And you’d already eaten by then?”

Mr. Dalton nods. “Yeah.”

His boyfriend leans forward in the chair. “He ate thirty wings.”

Mr. Dalton turns his head. “You don’t have to keep saying the number.”

His boyfriend lifts both hands. “I think the number is medically important.”

You keep your eyes on the screen. “I’m inclined to agree with him.”

Mr. Dalton gives you a wounded look. “There was a special.”

Jack reaches for the stethoscope around his neck. “That makes it better.”

Mr. Dalton studies his expression. “Are you making fun of me?”

Jack places the stethoscope against his abdomen. “Not while I’m examining you.”

You glance down quickly.

The boyfriend coughs into his fist.

Mr. Dalton looks between the three of you. “This hospital is hostile.”

“You haven’t met billing yet,” you tell him.

Jack looks up at you.

You raise your eyebrows.

His mouth twitches once before he turns his attention back to the exam.

There.

That is usually about as close as anyone gets to making Jack Abbot laugh when he is trying not to.

Jack palpates the right upper quadrant.

Mr. Dalton immediately sucks in a sharp breath.

The humor leaves the room.

Jack repeats the pressure more carefully. “Right there?”

Mr. Dalton nods tightly. “Yeah.”

You move closer to the bed.

“Any pain in your back or shoulder?” you ask.

Mr. Dalton considers it. “A little in my back.”

Jack looks toward you.

You are already thinking the same thing.

You ask the next question before he can. “Any fever or chills?”

Mr. Dalton shakes his head. “No.”

You glance toward the monitor, then back at the chart.

Stable.

Uncomfortable, but stable.

Jack straightens. “What are you thinking?”

You fold your arms loosely and work through it aloud.

“Biliary disease is high on the list,” you say. “Could still be gastritis, pancreatitis, ulcer disease. Less likely cardiac, but I’d rather not ignore atypical presentation completely.”

Jack nods once. “What gets you closer?”

You glance toward Mr. Dalton before answering. “CBC, CMP, lipase. Right upper quadrant ultrasound. EKG if anything in the history shifts us that direction.”

Jack watches you for another second. “Good.”

Mr. Dalton looks between you. “So it isn’t a curse?”

You turn toward him. “The labs won’t test for that.”

His boyfriend snorts.

Jack picks up the tablet from the counter. “We’ll start with the gallbladder.”

Mr. Dalton sighs. “My ex is going to be so disappointed.”

You step toward the door. “You don’t have to tell him.”

Mr. Dalton points toward you. “See? She gets it.”

Jack follows you into the hallway.

The curtain falls closed behind him.

You barely make it three steps before Jack glances toward you.

“Anything else?” he asks.

You slow.

You automatically run back through your differential.

Gallbladder.

Pancreas.

Ulcer.

Cardiac.

Then it hits you.

You stop walking. “Perforation.”

Jack keeps moving. “There you go.”

You stare after him.

“That was cruel,” you say as you catch up.

Jack glances toward you. “You got there.”

You sigh. “After you made me suffer.”

Jack gives you a look. “I asked one question.”

You match his pace. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Jack’s expression remains calm. “That’s generally the goal.”

You give him a look.

Jack looks ahead.

You can tell he knows exactly what expression you’re making.

That might be the annoying part.

Or maybe it’s that you know he’s right.

You reach the central station together.

Jack taps into an open workstation while you take the one beside him.

You begin entering the orders.

“Ultrasound first?” you ask.

Jack pulls up another chart. “Yes.”

You click through the order set. “Pain control?”

Jack glances at Mr. Dalton’s medication list on your screen. “Start conservative. Reassess after.”

You nod and finish the orders.

For a few seconds, neither of you says anything.

You don’t need to.

You know what Jack expects next.

He knows you know.

That is one of the easier parts of working with him.

There are attendings who make you feel as though every answer is an exam.

Jack makes you think.

There is a difference.

Your pager vibrates against your hip.

You check the display.

South.

Of course.

You stand and lock the workstation.

Jack glances toward you. “Where?”

You clip the pager back into place. “South Three.”

Jack nods toward the hallway. “Go.”

You take two steps, then glance back.

“Try not to diagnose the curse without me,” you say.

Jack looks at you over the top of the monitor.

“I’ll do my best,” he replies.

You grin and head toward South.

The next two hours disappear.

Not pass.

Disappear.

South Three needs a lac repair. Central Five needs a repeat abdominal exam. A six-year-old in North Two decides you are the only acceptable person in the emergency department because you let her put the pulse oximeter on your finger first.

Her father looks apologetic as she refuses to return it.

“She does this,” he says.

You look down at the glowing red light clipped to your finger. “Honestly, I’ve had worse consultations.”

The little girl giggles.

Her father relaxes.

You eventually trade the pulse oximeter for a grape popsicle and escape before she can negotiate further.

At 10:06, Mr. Keating’s first troponin comes back reassuring.

At 10:18, his repeat EKG remains unchanged.

You update him and his wife, which earns you a deeply suspicious look from Mr. Keating and a triumphant one from Mrs. Keating.

At 10:37, Mr. Dalton’s ultrasound confirms what you and Jack already suspected.

Gallstones.

No curse.

You’re at the central workstation reviewing the report when Crus appears beside you with a protein bar in one hand.

He drops it onto the desk next to your keyboard.

You look at it.

Then at him.

Crus points toward the wrapper. “Eat.”

You turn back toward the ultrasound report. “I’m working.”

Crus folds his arms. “That wasn’t the question.”

You glance at him. “There wasn’t a question.”

“Exactly,” Crus says.

You push the protein bar a few inches away. “I ate before shift.”

Crus immediately pushes it back. “And yet, you need a snack.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “How do you know that?”

Crus shrugs. “Because you get mean when you’re hungry.”

You stare at him.

Crus points toward your face. “That. That right there.”

From the workstation across from you, Ellis looks up from her chart.

“He’s right,” Ellis says.

You turn toward her. “Nobody asked you.”

Ellis goes back to typing. “See?”

You pick up the protein bar.

Crus nods approvingly. “Good talk.”

“You’re insufferable,” you tell him as you tear open the wrapper.

Crus starts backing away toward Central. “And yet I saved your life.”

You take a bite. “That feels medically inaccurate.”

Crus points toward you as he walks away. “You’re welcome.”

You shake your head and turn back toward the screen.

Shen passes behind you a few seconds later.

He slows just enough to look at the protein bar in your hand.

“Crus got to you?” Shen asks.

You chew before answering. “Apparently I’m being supervised.”

Shen nods once. “Good.”

You stare after him as he keeps walking.

“You’re all deeply controlling,” you call.

Without turning around, Shen lifts one hand. “We love you too.”

The words land lightly.

Too lightly for how much they mean.

You look down at the protein bar.

Then take another bite.

The electronic board refreshes overhead.

Two new patients populate in North. One in South. Behavioral has been full for most of the night.

Trauma remains empty.

Nobody says anything about it.

You finish half the protein bar before setting the rest beside the keyboard and opening your next chart.

A shadow falls across the workstation.

Jack stops beside you.

His eyes drop toward the wrapper.

You follow his gaze.

“Don’t,” you warn.

Jack looks at you. “I didn’t say anything.”

You narrow your eyes. “You were about to.”

Jack glances back toward the screen. “Wasn’t.”

You study him.

Jack keeps his expression neutral.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you tell him.

Jack reaches past you for the mouse at the neighboring workstation. “Eat your protein bar.”

You lean back in your chair. “Unbelievable.”

Jack taps his badge against the reader. “Apparently I’m not the first person to mention it.”

You shake your head. “You people need hobbies.”

Jack pulls up a chart. “This is my hobby.”

You look toward him. “Bossing around residents?”

Jack scrolls through the chart. “Very fulfilling.”

You shake your head again.

He doesn’t look over, but you catch the faintest movement at the corner of his mouth.

Then Lena’s voice cuts across the department.

“Trauma incoming,” she calls from the central station.

Everything changes.

Jack is already turning toward the board.

You set the protein bar down.

Lena scans the information coming through on the screen.

“Single-vehicle rollover,” she says. “Hypotensive. Decreasing responsiveness. Five minutes out.”

The joking disappears.

Jack looks toward the team.

“Trauma One,” he says.

You’re already moving.

Trauma One comes alive around you.

Bridget pulls open drawers and lays out supplies. Ellis wheels the ultrasound into position. Crus moves toward the foot of the bed while Shen clears the doorway.

Jack steps up beside you as you pull on a gown and gloves.

“What do we know?” he asks.

Lena keeps her attention on the incoming report. “Single-vehicle rollover. Driver. Thirty-six. Prolonged extrication. Hypotensive and increasingly altered. Two minutes out.”

Jack looks toward you. “Airway.”

You move toward the head of the bed. “Got it.”

That is all either of you needs.

The ambulance bay doors open less than a minute later.

EMS pushes the stretcher through at speed, the paramedic’s report coming fast over the movement.

“High-speed rollover,” the paramedic says. “Pressure seventy-eight over forty-six. Heart rate one-thirty-two. GCS dropped from thirteen to nine en route.”

Jack takes his position beside the bed.

“On three,” he directs. “One, two, three.”

The team transfers the patient.

Everything narrows.

Blood in the mouth.

Falling oxygen.

Dropping pressure.

You suction the airway while Jack examines the chest and abdomen.

“I’ve got blood in the airway,” you tell him.

Jack looks toward the monitor. “Breath sounds?”

You listen quickly. “Decreased on the left.”

The patient groans and tries weakly to turn his head.

You stabilize him.

“Sir, stay with me,” you say. “Can you tell me your name?”

Nothing coherent comes back.

You look toward Jack.

“He’s losing the airway,” you tell him.

Jack meets your eyes for half a second.

“Intubate,” he says.

You reach for the equipment Bridget has already placed beside you.

From there, the room becomes rhythm.

Medication.

Suction.

Tube.

Blood.

Commands passed and answered before anyone has time to repeat them.

You secure the airway while Jack moves to the chest.

Shen finds free fluid on the FAST.

Ellis calls surgery.

Crus reports another falling pressure.

You barely need to look at Jack to know where he is going next.

He barely needs to ask for what you have already handed him.

At one point, you both reach for the same gauze.

Jack shifts first.

You take it.

A few seconds later, you pass him suction before he asks.

It is not remarkable anymore.

That may be the most remarkable part.

The patient crashes once.

The entire room tightens around him.

Then, slowly, the numbers begin moving in the right direction.

Not good.

Stable enough.

Surgery arrives.

The stretcher disappears toward the OR.

And just like that, Trauma One is quiet again.

Not truly quiet.

Someone is stripping bloody sheets from the bed. The monitor is still running. Somewhere outside the bay, another call bell starts ringing.

But the emergency is gone.

Your hands were steady while the patient needed them to be.

Now, standing over the sink, you can feel the adrenaline beginning to hum through your fingers.

You wash your hands.

At the sink beside you, Jack does the same.

For a few seconds, neither of you speaks.

Then Jack reaches for a paper towel.

“Nice airway,” he says.

You glance toward him.

Praise from Jack is rarely elaborate.

That is probably why it carries weight.

“Nice chest,” you reply.

Jack pauses.

His eyes drop briefly to his chest, then back to you.

You realize what you said approximately one second too late.

“The decompression,” you clarify.

Jack looks back up at you.

“I know what you meant,” he says.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

The corner of his mouth shifts. “A little.”

You shake your head. “You’re awful.”

“So I’ve been told,” Jack replies as he tosses the paper towel into the bin.

Your pager vibrates against your hip before you can answer.

You pull it free and glance at the display.

North.

Jack notices and holds the door open for you.

“Go,” he says.

You clip the pager back onto your waistband. “Already going.”

You pass him into the hallway.

Trauma One resets behind you.

The department keeps moving.

So do you.

Someone comes around the corner too fast.

You barely have time to register a set of navy scrubs before a shoulder clips yours.

Your balance shifts.

A hand lands against the middle of your back.

Steady.

Warm.

Gone almost as quickly as it arrived.

“Sorry,” Mateo calls as he keeps moving. “Trauma supplies.”

“You’re good,” you call after him.

You straighten.

Jack is standing beside you.

Of course he is.

His hand has already dropped back to his side.

“You alright?” Jack asks.

You glance toward him. “I survived.”

Jack looks in the direction Mateo disappeared. “It was close.”

You give him a look. “I was fine.”

Jack starts toward the central station. “You almost went down.”

You fall into step beside him. “That is a dramatic retelling.”

Jack glances toward you. “I caught you.”

“You steadied me,” you correct.

Jack’s mouth shifts faintly. “Still counts.”

You point toward him. “Very heroic.”

Jack taps his badge against an open workstation. “I do what I can.”

You stop beside the neighboring computer.

“Should I tell everyone you saved me?” you ask.

Jack looks toward you.

For just a beat, his expression changes.

“Depends,” he says.

You rest one hand against the edge of the workstation. “On?”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours.

“How grateful are you planning to be?” he asks.

You blink.

Jack turns back toward his monitor and opens a chart.

Your brain takes one very unhelpful second to catch up.

You stare at the side of his face.

Did he—

No.

You narrow your eyes. “Was that supposed to sound like that?”

Jack keeps scrolling. “Like what?”

You watch him.

He looks completely innocent.

Which is suspicious all by itself.

“You know what,” you say. “Never mind.”

Jack glances over. “Probably for the best.”

You turn toward your own workstation.

Your badge misses the reader the first time.

You try again.

Jack says nothing.

You can feel him not saying anything.

You finally get the computer unlocked and pull up your next chart.

It was a joke.

Obviously.

Jack jokes with you all the time.

That one just happened to come out a little—

You stop the thought there.

Absolutely not.

You start typing.

Three minutes later, your pager vibrates against your waistband.

Good.

You could use the interruption.

You pull it free and glance at the display.

Central Seven.

You save your note, lock the workstation, and stand before your brain can revisit anything Jack said.

Bridget catches you halfway across Central.

She has a tablet tucked against her chest and the particular expression she gets when something isn’t necessarily emergent but needs the right person.

“Seventeen-year-old female,” Bridget says as she falls into step beside you. “Shortness of breath, chest tightness, tingling in both hands. Tachy in triage, but everything else looks okay.”

You glance toward her. “How tachy?”

Bridget checks the vitals on the tablet. “One-twenty-eight initially. She’s down around one-fifteen now.”

You nod. “Any history?”

“Nothing significant in the chart,” Bridget replies. “Mom’s with her.”

Something in Bridget’s tone makes you look over.

She lowers her voice. “She’s really scared.”

“Okay,” you say as you reach the curtain.

The girl is sitting upright on the stretcher when you enter.

Her shoulders are pulled nearly to her ears. Both hands are knotted into the blanket across her lap, and every breath comes too quickly to finish properly before the next one starts.

Her mother stands beside the bed, rubbing a hand between her shoulder blades.

“I keep telling her she has to slow down,” her mother says as soon as she sees you. “She just can’t.”

The girl’s eyes squeeze shut.

Her breathing gets faster.

You pull the rolling stool toward the bed and sit instead of standing over her.

“Hey,” you say softly.

The girl opens her eyes.

You keep your hands loose in your lap.

“I’m one of the doctors working tonight,” you tell her. “Can you tell me your name?”

She manages it between breaths.

You nod. “Okay. I’m going to ask you a few questions. You don’t have to rush your answers.”

The girl swallows hard and gives you a small nod.

Her mother starts rubbing her back again.

The girl’s shoulders tense beneath her hand.

You look toward her mother.

“Can we give her a little space for a minute?” you ask gently. “You can stay right here. I just want to give her one thing to focus on.”

Her mother immediately pulls her hand away. “Of course.”

You turn back toward the girl.

“Look at me,” you say.

Her eyes find yours.

“You don’t have to force yourself to breathe normally right now,” you tell her. “Just stay with me.”

The girl’s fingers tighten around the blanket.

“I can’t breathe,” she whispers.

“I know it feels that way,” you say. “But you are getting air in. Your oxygen level looks good, and I’m going to make sure there isn’t anything dangerous causing this.”

Her eyes flick toward the monitor.

You lean forward slightly.

“You don’t have to fix anything,” you add. “That’s my job.”

Something shifts in her face.

Barely.

But enough.

You start with the basics.

When did it begin? Any chest pain? Any medical conditions? Medications? Recent illness? Anything she took tonight? Anything happen immediately before it started?

Her answers come slowly at first.

Then in fuller sentences.

By the time you reach the end of the history, her hands have loosened slightly in the blanket.

The curtain moves behind you.

Jack steps inside.

His gaze goes first to the monitor, then to the girl, then to you.

He doesn’t interrupt.

He stays near the foot of the bed while you finish your question.

You turn toward him when you’re done.

“Seventeen,” you tell him. “Acute dyspnea, chest tightness, bilateral hand tingling. No syncope. No significant cardiac history. Vitals are improving, but she’s still tachy.”

Jack looks toward the girl. “Any chest pain now?”

The girl shakes her head. “No.”

Jack nods once. “Okay.”

He looks back toward you. “What do you want to do?”

You glance toward the monitor. “EKG and basic labs. I want to rule out the things I’d regret missing.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change much.

It rarely does.

But he nods.

“Agreed,” he says.

Then he steps back out.

That is it.

No takeover.

No second-guessing.

Just trust.

By the time the reassuring workup comes back, the girl’s breathing has slowed.

Her hands are no longer shaking.

Her mother’s still are.

You finish going over follow-up instructions while the girl changes behind the curtain.

Her mother twists the strap of her purse between both hands.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I feel like we made such a scene.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

The woman looks toward the curtain.

“She was scared,” you say. “You were scared too. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her mouth trembles slightly.

She looks down at her purse.

“Thank you for not making her feel stupid,” she says.

Something catches unexpectedly in your throat.

You swallow.

“She isn’t,” you reply.

The woman nods.

You give her a moment before stepping into the hallway.

Jack is at the central workstation outside the room, finishing something in the chart.

You take the computer beside him and tap your badge against the reader.

“How is she?” Jack asks.

You wait for the chart to load. “Better.”

Jack nods toward the room. “Good.”

For a few seconds, the only sound between you is the tapping of keys.

Then Jack glances toward you.

“You handled that well,” he says.

Your fingers pause.

You look over. “The medicine or the mother?”

Jack considers you for half a second. “Both.”

You look back toward your screen.

A little warmth settles somewhere beneath your ribs.

Not because it is Jack.

Not exactly.

Because he noticed.

Because his opinion matters.

You clear your throat and open the discharge instructions.

“Careful,” you say. “You keep that up, people are going to think you like your residents.”

Jack turns back toward his own chart. “Let’s not start rumors.”

You smile. “Good save.”

Jack scrolls down the screen. “I thought so.”

Your pager vibrates again.

You glance down at the display.

South.

You sigh and push away from the workstation.

“Duty calls,” you say as you stand.

Jack turns back toward his chart. “Apparently.”

You head toward South.

By 7:12 a.m., the department finally starts to loosen its grip.

Not empty.

Never empty.

Just quieter.

The waiting room has thinned. North has two open rooms. Central is almost caught up. South still has three patients waiting on disposition, but nobody is actively trying to die, which feels like a luxury after the night you’ve had.

You finish your last note at the central workstation while day shift begins filtering in around you.

Fresh scrubs.

Fresh coffee.

Fresh faces that have no idea what happened in Trauma One six hours ago or why Mateo is still carrying one of your chargers.

You sign the note and lock the chart.

Done.

For approximately twelve seconds.

Shen appears beside you already wearing his jacket.

“You look terrible,” he says.

You glance toward him. “Good morning to you too.”

Shen takes a long sip from whatever remains in his cup. “I’m being supportive.”

You sigh. “You should work on your technique.”

Shen studies you for a moment. “You’re still upright.”

You nod. “Barely.”

He considers that. “Proud of you.”

You look at him.

Shen’s expression stays completely straight.

You narrow your eyes. “Was that sincere?”

He starts walking backward toward the exit. “Don’t ruin it.”

You smile despite yourself.

“Get home safe,” you call after him.

Shen lifts one hand over his shoulder. “You too.”

Across the station, Ellis gathers her things while Crus argues with Mateo over whose charger is plugged into the wall.

Lena is already giving handoff to day shift.

Jack stands at the far workstation with one hand braced against the desk, talking through a patient with Robby.

You catch yourself looking over.

Not for any particular reason.

Just habit.

Jack listens, nods once, adds something you can’t hear, then glances across the department.

His eyes find yours.

You hold his gaze for a second.

Then two.

Nothing strange about that.

You worked together all night.

Still, the earlier exchange flashes through your mind before you can stop it.

How grateful are you planning to be?

You look away first.

Ridiculous.

You reach for the Dunkin cup Shen brought at the beginning of shift.

It isn’t there.

In its place sits a fresh brown sugar oat milk iced espresso, condensation still gathering along the plastic.

Your name is written across the side.

You stop.

This one isn’t from Dunkin.

It’s from the good café downstairs, the one with the longer line, better espresso, and prices everyone complains about before going there anyway.

You pick up the cup.

Brown sugar. Oat milk.

Your exact order.

You take a cautious sip.

Perfect.

Someone remembered.

And apparently went downstairs for it.

You glance around the station.

Ellis is gathering her things. Crus is still arguing with Mateo over a charger. Shen left ten minutes ago. Lena is halfway through handoff.

Across the department, Jack stands at the far workstation with Robby.

You look down at the cup again.

There is absolutely no reason to assume it was him.

So naturally, that is exactly where your mind goes.

You remove your pager and tuck it into your bag.

Your badge follows.

The small rituals of leaving feel almost as automatic as the ones that started the night.

Across the department, Jack finishes handoff and looks toward you.

“You heading out?” he asks.

You zip your bag. “Finally.”

Jack nods toward the doors. “Good. Go home.”

You smile faintly. “You make it sound like an order.”

“It is,” Jack says.

You slip your bag over your shoulder. “Goodnight, Abbot.”

You make it a few steps before Jack calls after you.

“Hey.”

You turn.

Jack stands beside the workstation, one hand resting against the desk.

“Nice work tonight,” he says.

You look at him.

No joke.

No setup.

Just Jack.

You smile. “Thanks.”

Jack gives you a small nod. “Night.”

“Night,” you reply.

Then you turn toward the doors.

The automatic doors open.

Morning light spills into the corridor.

You leave PTMC with your bag over one shoulder, fresh coffee cold against your palm, and the strange sense that the night is still following you out.

Nothing happened.

That is the problem.