THIRTEEN
CALLUM
“I’m on the relief team, Mā.”
I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear, stacking another case of bottled water on the pantry shelf, plastic crackling in the quiet of my apartment.
“Hěn hǎo,” she replies, warm and distracted. She’s probably elbow-deep in dumpling dough, like always. She kneads when she talks. Kneads when she worries. “That means you’ll be home during the storm, right?”
“Yeah.” I flip open a flashlight. The beam flickers on. Good. It joins the growing stockpile of batteries, canned food, and candles—my own apocalypse starter kit. “I won’t be at the hospital until after the worst of it passes.”
“Be careful,” she murmurs. “The news says this is a big one.”
“It’ll be fine. All prepared,” I say, trying to inject confidence into my voice. “I’ve got food, water, batteries. Just waiting it out.”
Mā scoffs. An unimpressed sound only a mother who’s seen your worst decisions can pull off. Probably remembering teenage me coming home soaked because umbrellas were apparently “uncool” and raincoats “too loud.”
“And Claudia?” she asks.
“She’s in Brisbane, flying back first thing tomorrow before the airport shuts down.”
She sighs. One of those sighs. The kind that carries a lifetime of tradition, expectations, and unspoken disappointment.
“She’s always traveling,” she says, neutral as paper, sharp as glass. “Always in a hurry. She dropped off your gifts and the honey, but she didn’t stay for lunch. Your Bà even opened the good tea, and she still left before my bao buns were done steaming.”
“She’s just busy, Mā. Her research is important.” I say it too quickly, like if I get it out fast enough, neither of us has to sit with what she’s really implying.
“Hán Wěi . . .” My Chinese name, a soft prod. “Settling down is also important. When will you and Claudia focus on that? Marriage? Children? All our friends’ sons have families. Even your cousin Míngzé’s fiancée is already seeing baby doctors.”
Of course. Míngzé’s entire life is a bullet-pointed list of culturally approved milestones. Law degree. Investment property. Engagement photos staged like a lifestyle magazine shoot. No skipped steps. No delays.
“I know, Mā.” I swallow hard, feeling the weight of generations pressing down on me. “We’re waiting for the right time.”
“You’re not getting any younger,” she presses, sharper now. “Family is everything to us. What about xiào?” She’s pulling out the big guns now. Filial piety, the duty I owe my parents to continue the family legacy. “We have our traditions, you know?”
Thing is, Claudia always moved through that space differently than I did—still respectful, still rooted, just not governed by it. I think that was what drew me in. She could hold tradition in her hands without letting it close around her throat.
It was late, and we were still drowning in discharge notes and unfinished charts. Claudia mentioned casually that she was skipping Lunar New Year’s Eve dinner with her relatives because one of the ED girls had scored last-minute tickets to a rooftop party.
I stared at her. She stared back.
“What?” she’d said. “I’ll see them on the second day.”
“You’re missing reunion dinner.”
She shrugged. “Callum, it’s one meal, not a blood oath. Besides, Dad’s off with his new blonde, and they won’t be back from their European honeymoon until after.”
“But—”
“I’m not renouncing my ancestors,” she said, closing the chart in her hand. “I’ll still do Qīngmíng. Cemetery, offerings, emotionally repressed reverence. You know. The usual.”
I don’t remember what expression I was wearing, only that she smiled at it. Fondly, if anything.
“Tradition’s good, Callum,” she said. “I’m just saying it’s meant to hold your life, not run it.”
Then she turned and started walking away.
I watched her for half a second too long before saying, “I can think of better ways to spend Lunar New Year than a rooftop party in the CBD.”
Claudia glanced back. “Oh yeah?”
My pulse kicked stupidly hard.
“Yeah,” I said. “Come out with me instead.”
“We’ll talk when she’s back,” I say to Mā. A compromise on my tongue, a lie in my chest.
Because once, we had an answer to that.
Once, Claudia and I were still residents, just starting out, building our careers, carving out futures. We’d talked about it—kids, settling down—back when it felt hypothetical. Something for later.
But later is now. The space where those conversations used to live has gone quiet.
Mā makes a small noise of discontent, but she lets it go. For now.
“Your Bà and I miss you. The shop isn’t the same without you.”
Her voice softens. The weight shifts. Less expectation, more something else.
There’s background noise. The familiar clang of woks.
The overhead fan that squeaks every third rotation.
Bà is taking an order in Mandarin. A lump forms in my throat.
I picture the restaurant—small, worn tables, old, laminated menus with prices scratched out and rewritten in pen.
The smell of garlic, soy, and steam that clings to your clothes long after you’ve left.
“I miss you too,” I murmur. “I’ll try to visit soon.”
“Be safe, Hán Wěi,” she says.
I hang up before she can say anything else that will make my chest ache.
I set the phone down. The chair by the kitchen counter draws my attention. Claudia’s jacket is draped over it, right where she left it the last time she was home.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring.
Then I blink, shake it off, and reach for my sneakers near the door.
Time for a run.
The ocean is restless. Waves curl in on themselves before they even reach the shore. Seagulls, usually loud and insistent, have gone quiet—like even they know something’s coming.
I run anyway. Pavement slick beneath my sneakers. Wind dragging at my shirt, the damp fabric clinging to my skin. Palm trees groan against the rising gusts. The scent of salt and static is thick in the air, sharp at the back of my throat.
This is a good thing.
A cyclone means no flights. No meetings. No research. No emails. No phones.No distractions.
Just Claudia and I, stuck inside with nothing to do but be together. Blankets. Storm lanterns. Slow mornings without alarms. Us, curled up in the dark, listening to the wind thrash against the windows. Us, tangled in sheets and whispered conversations. The way it used to be.
Before our lives started pulling in opposite directions.
Maybe we’d talk. Not about work, or travel plans, or the next place she had to be. But about us. About where we’re going.
By the time I make it back to the building, I’m soaked through. Sweat and sea air clinging to me, cool on my skin, warm at my collar. I slow down near the gate, breathing heavily, and my pulse still thudding in my ears.
I pull my phone from my pocket.
Swipe.
CLAUDIA
Extending my Brisbane stay. Power outages expected in Townsville, and I need stable Wi-Fi for reports. Makes more sense to wait it out. Love you. Talk soon.
I stop.
Feet planted on the concrete.
Wind howling in the palms overhead.
So much for plans.
The hospital is a fortress.
Windows taped. Sandbags piled. Emergency generators ready. The air hums with that familiar buzz of controlled chaos before a disaster. It’s only midday, but the sky’s already gone from yesterday’s eerie purple to a smothering, oil-slick black. The latest updates predict landfall just before dawn.
I barely slept last night. Not because of the storm, but because of the message sitting on my phone.
Love you. Talk soon.
Claudia could have come home. She chose not to.
As if she already knew I wouldn’t argue. That I’d understand. That I’d be fine on my own.
And maybe I am. But that’s not the point.
I push the thought aside as I step into the conference room for the perioperative cyclone response briefing, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. The room is already full—anesthetists, nurses, techs, everyone looking alert and prepared.
Jordie’s there, sprawled in a chair, owning the space.
Fucking finally.
Took them long enough to bring her back. Seeing her here feels like a chair scraping back into place.
She’s got one foot hooked around the table leg, expression relaxed, tapping a pen like she’s bored. Like it’s just another Tuesday and not the calm before a Category 5 storm.
Her eyes flick up. Pause. Blink.
“Thought I saw your name on the relief team roster,” she says, brow furrowing.
I drop my bag beside the empty chair next to her. “Kapoor’s kid spiked a fever. I volunteered to cover.” A beat. “Not much going on at home, anyway.”
Her brows pull ever so slightly, something that says she caught the subtext but chose not to press.
I sigh, straighten my shoulders, and decide to start the meeting before I drown the room in my salt.
Clearing my throat, I step forward, pulling the meeting into gear.
“Alright, listen up.”
My voice cuts through the chatter. The room stills.
“First off—thank you. I know a lot of you have left homes, kids, partners, and probably at least one extremely stressed-out dog to be here. I appreciate you all stepping up for our patients.”
I let the words settle before moving on. “Staff are divided into three teams. A, B, and C. Two teams work; one rests. Rotation for thirty-six to forty-eight hours until relief team arrives.” I scan the room. “Category C procedures until 2200. After that, life and limb cases only.”
A few nods. Someone scribbles notes.
“Doctors’ on-call rooms are open to everyone. Showers too.” I scribble the access code on the whiteboard. “And before anyone gets ideas, this is not a dating retreat. I don’t want to hear about a baby boom in nine months. Keep your trauma bonding PG.”
One of the junior doctors tsks. “There goes my plan to find love mid-disaster.”
I deadpan. “Try a crossword.”
A few chuckles.
I move on. “Kitchen is providing light refreshments for staff. If I catch anyone hoarding snacks and forming a post-apocalyptic doomsday cult, I’ll personally throw you outside into the storm.”
More laughter.
I glance at the whiteboard. “Roster’s the same. Only change is Team B; Kapoor’s team is now mine. Any questions?”
Murmurs, but no one speaks up. I nod and dismiss them. People break off into small groups. Someone claps a colleague on the shoulder. A few jokes about who’ll get the best nap spots.
“Well, well.” Jordie’s voice. Low. Amused. Dry as ever.
I turn just as she leans against the table, looking far too pleased with herself. “Looks like we’re on the same team, Hotshot.”
I cap my marker and toss it onto the table. “Try not to slow me down, Goblin Queen.”
She hums, all faux-consideration. “If you start flailing, I’m letting natural selection do its thing.”
I snort, grabbing my duffle. “Touching.”
Jordie pushes up from the chair with a lazy stretch. “Just try not to embarrass me.”
I roll my eyes, but my mouth twitches.
This is going to be a long two days.