Shift Change

At 3 AM in the breakroom, Sarah dry-swallowed a **vitamin** D supplement—her doctor's orders for someone who "never sees the sun anymore." She'd been working nights for three years, ever since the divorce, when the darkness felt easier than facing empty days. Her skin had taken on a translucent quality, like paper held up to light.

Her **iPhone** vibrated against the table—Dan, probably. Her ex-husband still texted daily, little fragments of the life they'd built: "Saw that movie we liked," "The cat threw up on the rug again," "I'm sorry." She hadn't blocked him. She just never replied.

The charging **cable** was fraying where it connected to the base, exposing copper wire like something wounded. She kept meaning to buy a new one. She kept meaning to do a lot of things.

Nurse Marco stuck his head in. "Patient in 402's asking for you. Says he knew you in another life."

Sarah sighed, already reaching for her stethoscope. 402 was the older man with the fading tattoo on his forearm—a **bear** with its arms raised, claws out, like it was caught mid-roar. He'd been admitted for pneumonia three days ago, lonely and stubborn, refusing to call his daughter.

"There she is," he said wheezily when she entered. His eyes were bright despite the oxygen cannula. "You look tired, sweetheart."

"It's 3 AM, Mr. Sterling. Everyone's tired."

He patted the bed. "Come here. I want to show you something."

Sarah approached cautiously. This was the part where patients got religious, or confessional, or handsy.

Instead, he pointed to the bear on his arm. "Got this in '72. Prison tattoo. My girl was waiting for me, but I thought I needed to be something harder to survive in there." His voice cracked. "She died while I was inside. Never got to tell her I was just scared."

Sarah stood very still. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

"You're still young," he continued. "Don't wait until you're drowning to reach for the people who love you."

She thought of Dan's texts. Of the vitamin bottles lining her bathroom counter. Of the fraying cable she kept using because replacing it felt like admitting something was broken.

"I won't," she said.

He smiled, revealing missing teeth. "Good. Now get out of here and call your husband."

"Ex-husband."

"Details." He waved a hand dismissively. "Love doesn't keep receipts."

In the breakroom, Sarah picked up her phone. The screen lit up with another message from Dan: "I made your coffee anyway. Old habits."

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. Then she typed: "Can we talk?"