Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Colton
The day doesn’t slow down because I’m tired.
It never has.
I start rounds with the patients who can’t wait—the ones whose vitals don’t tell the whole story, whose bodies are holding steady while everything else slips. Charts blur together in the way they always do when I’m running on too little sleep and too much inevitability.
Room 412 is first. I expect Trudy. Instead, Melissa Rivers is already there. She’s been here for a week now, but I have had little to no interaction with her.
She stands at the foot of the bed, tablet tucked under her arm, posture relaxed but alert. The patient is awake, calmer than he was earlier, his wife seated beside him with her hand wrapped loosely around his.
“Morning,” I say.
She looks up. “Good morning, Dr. Fisher.”
No hesitation. No edge. Just factual.
“How’s his pain?”
“Controlled,” she says. “He needed one PRN about forty minutes ago. It helped. Anxiety’s still higher in the mornings.”
I glance at the patient. He nods in confirmation.
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll keep an eye on it.”
She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t fill the silence. She just waits.
I review the chart quickly, ask a few questions, adjust a plan I already knew I was going to adjust. When I finish, she’s already moving to make a note.
Efficient. I appreciate that. I don’t have time for anything but efficiency in my department.
I run into her again two rooms later.
This time, she’s standing outside the doorway, arms folded loosely, listening while another nurse finishes speaking. When she turns and sees me, she shifts seamlessly, stepping aside without prompting.
“Dr. Fisher,” she says.
“Anything I should know?” I ask.
“He’s more short of breath than yesterday,” she replies. “Vitals are stable, but it’s new.”
That gives me pause.
“How new?”
“Started overnight. Not severe, but noticeable.”
I nod. “I’ll take a look.”
She holds the door for me as I go in.
Inside, the assessment confirms what she said. Subtle but there. When I finish and step back out, she’s already waiting.
“I’ll order imaging,” I say.
“I’ll let him know what to expect,” she replies.
We move in opposite directions, but something sticks with me as I walk away. I don’t like how natural that felt. I don’t like how there was no pause, no awkwardness, no distance. It should be alarming, but I don’t have time to analyze something so silly.
By midday, I’ve stopped pretending it was all incidental.
She’s everywhere—not in a disruptive way, not in a way that draws attention. But present. Prepared. Steady.
She anticipates questions before I ask them.
She doesn’t volunteer unnecessary information, but when she speaks, it matters.
At one point, I start to ask about labs and realize she’s already pulled them up.
I stop myself from commenting. Praise invites conversation. Conversation invites familiarity. I don’t have room for that.
The only friction comes in the afternoon.
A family is anxious—understandably—and pressing for more information than I’m ready to give. I explain the plan carefully, clinically, keeping my voice neutral.
When I step out, Melissa is waiting.
“They’re scared,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I reply.
“They’re hearing wait as nothing’s happening.”
I meet her gaze then—really look at her for the first time since this morning.
Her expression isn’t challenging. It’s measured. Observant.
“I’m not going to speculate,” I say.
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” she answers. “Thought you should know how it’s landing.”
I hold her gaze a second too long.
“Thank you,” I say, sharper than necessary. “I’m very aware of how my words land. I’ve been doing this for years.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just nods and steps back into the room.
I exhale slowly once she’s gone. That shouldn’t have unsettled me.
It did.
Later, I’m reviewing notes when I realize something’s missing.
Room 412 again. I look up, expecting to see her there.
She isn’t.
Trudy is instead, speaking quietly to the patient while adjusting the IV.
The feeling of the absence is brief. Pointless. But I notice it anyway.
Annoying. I finish what I’m doing and move on.
The day drags toward evening, the way my days always do—long stretches of control, punctuated by moments that remind me how thin it all is.
As I wrap up my last consult, I see her one final time at the nurses’ station, typing quickly, focused.
She looks up as I approach.
“Anything else before I head out?” she asks.
It’s a normal question. It feels loaded anyway.
“No,” I say. “That’s all.”
She gives a small nod. “Okay. Have a good night.”
She turns away before I can respond.
I watch her for half a second longer than necessary, irritation prickling low in my chest. I don’t know why she’s under my skin.
I don’t want to know.
I leave later than I should.
The halls are quieter now, the unit settling into its night rhythm. As I walk toward my office, I force my focus back where it belongs—on the patients, on the work, on the things I can control.
Whatever this is—this awareness, this disruption—it’s inconvenient.
Unwelcome.
And it will not be indulged.
Tomorrow, I’ll keep my distance. Tomorrow, this will stop mattering. I tell myself that as I turn out the light.
I don’t believe it.