The Night Shift

The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour pharmacy cast everything in a sickly blue glow. I moved through the aisles like a zombie—three nights of double shifts will do that to a person. My scrubs smelled like antiseptic and other people's despair.

At the counter, a massive man waited. He had the build of a grizzly bear, shoulders hunched around an invisible burden. His eyes were red-rimmed, desperate.

"Please," he said, sliding a crumpled prescription across the counter. "It's for my daughter. She's been sick for weeks."

I scanned the order: antibiotics, powerful stuff. Something viral, resistant. Behind him, a plastic bag containing a goldfish—just a child's pet, but it kept darting frantically against its plastic walls, seeking escape.

"My wife," he continued, voice cracking, "she blames me. Says I should have noticed sooner. I've been working so much, barely home."

I'd heard this story before. Working-class fathers stretched thin, missing the signs until it was too late. I reached behind the counter for the medication, my movements automatic.

"Hey," I said, spotting the bottle of multivitamins near his elbow. "You ever take these?"

He shook his head. "No time. No point."

"My dad died of a heart attack at forty-five," I said, perhaps too bluntly, but exhaustion makes you honest. "He never took care of himself either. Thought he was invincible."

The bear of a man looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw the terror underneath. The realization that he might not be there for his daughter if he didn't start taking care of himself.

I added the vitamins to his bag. "On the house."

He nodded, something like gratitude softening his hardened features. On my way home, I stopped at the community center. The pool was empty at 3 AM, the water still and dark. I stripped down to my skin and went swimming.

The water enveloped me, washing away the hospital smells, the exhaustion, the weight of other people's pain. For an hour, I was just a body moving through darkness, nothing more, nothing less.

When I emerged, the sky was beginning to lighten. Another shift survived. Another night finished. The city would wake up soon, everyone moving like zombies through their own routines, bearing their own invisible burdens.

I got in my car and drove home, knowing I'd do it all again tomorrow.