CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
SOPHIA
I sip my flat white, scrolling through the overnight report on my tablet.
Jack has politely cajoled me into trying one last week, and I’ve initially refused on principle—I take a certain pride in drinking coffee strong enough to make grown men cry.
But I’ve finally given in, and though I’ve played it off as “eh, they’re okay,” the truth is I actually enjoy the velvety texture.
Not that I’d admit that to Jack. He’d never let me hear the end of it after all my stubborn resistance.
Of course, if he punishes me for that admission in the same way he did last night, maybe I don’t mind so much.
The thought sends a flicker of heat low in my belly, a phantom ache that makes me cross my legs unconsciously. Jack is significantly bigger than I am used to. Bigger than Troy ever was, in every possible way—and I am still adjusting. In the best way.
I take another sip of coffee and try to focus on my shift report, not on the memory of him pinning my wrists to the head of my bed like I was the only thing that had ever mattered.
The break room hums with the usual shift-change energy.
Day shift nurses huddle around the table and lean against counters, some still yawning, others already buzzing with caffeine.
I’ve gotten the changeover brief from the night charge nurse, and am about to go over assignments and flag any troublesome patients, but I am waiting for one more person.
Nate Crawford, who punches in at precisely 6:45 AM every single day without fail. Military punctuality that has become so reliable we practically set our watches by it.
It is now 6:55, and he is not here.
I check my phone. No messages. No calls. This is very unusual. I am about to text him when the break room door bursts open.
Nate rushes in, looking utterly harried…and he is not alone.
Tailing him, looking small and sleepy and utterly out of place, is a girl of about eleven, clutching a worn-looking backpack shaped like a cartoon cat and a well-worn paperback.
Her dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she blinks owlishly against the harsh fluorescent lights.
Paige , I realize with a start. I’d met her once at the department holiday party a couple years back, but she’d grown several inches since then and now sports blue braces that flash briefly when she nervously bites her lip.
I’d heard Nate mention her a thousand times, his voice always softening, but seeing her here, in the hospital, is jarring.
The break room goes silent. Every eye turns to Nate and the child—his pristine professional image visibly cracks under the weight of what is clearly an emergency situation.
“I…” he starts, then falters, his usual calm completely shattered. The collective stares of his colleagues seem to make it worse, though several smile kindly at Paige.
I stand up immediately. “Nathan. The charge office, please?”
He nods gratefully, steering Paige toward the charge nurse office just off the main corridor. As they pass, Paige clutches her book tighter, like a shield.
Once inside, Nate closes the door and turns to me, his voice low and urgent.
“Soph—Miss Mitchell. Ma’am, I apologize for the breach of protocol.
” He actually uses “ma’am”. His eyes, usually so steady, dart around like he is expecting hospital administration to rappel in from the ceiling.
“My babysitter didn’t show, no warning, no communication.
I had no alternative childcare options available on short notice. I have no excuse, ma’am.”
I take in his stressed face, the way his shoulders are hunched.
This is Nathan Crawford, my most reliable, unflappable nurse, looking like he is about to face a firing squad.
I know the broad strokes of his story—everyone who works with him for any length of time does.
Paige’s mom had walked out when Paige was just a baby, maybe three months old, wanting a life free of responsibility.
He never talks about it, not really, but the weight of it is there, in the way he pours everything into his daughter and his job.
He is trying not just 100%, but 200% to make up for that absence, and I always get the heartbreaking sense that he feels like he is still not quite enough, even though he is a superdad by any measure.
“Nathan,” I say quietly, “you could be on fire and you’d apologize for the smoke. Relax. It’s okay.”
He inhales sharply, a barely perceptible relaxation in his shoulders.
I smile at Paige. “Hi there. I’m Sophia. Your dad’s told me a lot about you.”
She gives a small, polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“Okay, Nate,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Deep breath. It happens.” My own mind is already racing.
A kid in the ER, even in a quiet corner, is against every policy imaginable.
Safety, HIPAA, the sheer unpredictability of what might roll through those doors.
But looking at Nate’s desperate face, and little Paige trying to make herself invisible in the corner of my office…
“She can’t go out there,” I say, more gently, bringing us back to the immediate problem.
“And you’ll be worried sick if she’s just tucked away somewhere.
” I glance at the schedule. We are adequately staffed for the moment, but that could change with one bad call.
“Can you get someone to pick her up soon?”
He runs a hand over his face. “Working on it, ma’am. My neighbor usually helps in a pinch, but she’s out of town until this afternoon. I’m calling everyone I know.”
“You could call out,” I offer, even though we both know what that means. “I can try to cover triage myself for a bit, or ask Maria to pull someone from the float pool, but…” I hesitate. “It’d count as an occurrence. And a late call-out.”
We don’t need to say the rest. HR’s latest memo has been clear: calling out within thirty minutes of your shift means an automatic written warning. One more after that, and your job is on the line. And I can’t fudge his timecard without putting both our necks on the block.
Nate just shakes his head, looking even more miserable.
A knock at the door interrupts us. Tasha Williams sticks her head in, holding her travel coffee mug.
“Oh my God, hiiiii, is this your daughter?” Tasha asks, her eyes lighting on Paige. “The one who drew that heart valves picture you showed everyone!?”
Paige looks startled. “You showed my picture to people?”
Nate’s ears redden slightly. “It was exceptional work.”
Tasha leans down slightly to Paige’s level. “I thought it was soooooo cool how you included the interatrial septum. Most people forget that’s technically a fifth distinct area.”
Paige brightens visibly, sitting up straighter. “Dad helped me build a model!”
“If you need someone to watch her,” Tasha says, turning to me, her usual sharp edge is softened by an uncharacteristic awkwardness, “I could stay with her in the break room. Just until Nate can sort something out.” She shrugs, aiming for casual. “I’m good with kids. Got a bunch of younger cousins.”
I stare at her. Nate looks equally stunned. This is Tasha Williams, queen of the eye-roll and the “not my patient” sigh, offering to babysit. The ER gods truly work in mysterious ways.
“Are you sure, Tasha?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral, appraising her. This cannot be a half-hearted offer. “You’d be responsible for her. I’d need to pull you from the floor.”
“I can handle it,” Tasha says, a flicker of her usual defensiveness in her tone, but her eyes are fixed on Paige with something that looks surprisingly like…empathy? “For an hour or so. Give Nate time to make some calls.”
I make a quick decision. It is not ideal, but it is the best bad option we have. “Okay, Tasha. Thank you. For one hour. Break room. I’ll let Nathan and I handle Fast Track between us.”
Nate looks like he could weep with relief. “Tasha, I…thank you. Seriously. I owe you big time.”
“No worries, Nate,” Tasha says, already turning to Paige. She gestures to the book in Paige’s hands. “Is that ‘The Giver’?”
Paige nods, holding it up. “For school.”
“That’s one of my favorites,” Tasha says, her face lighting up with genuine enthusiasm. “The ending still makes me mad, though.”
Paige’s eyes widen. “You’ve read it?”
“Dystopian literature is kind of my thing,” Tasha admits, then looks at me defensively. “What? I read!”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Never doubted it.”
Nate hesitates, then unzips his backpack and hands Paige a smaller bag. “Your lunch. Protein bar for midmorning. Water bottle’s full. Remember your inhaler’s in the side pocket if you need it.”
“Dad,” Paige mutters, embarrassed. “I know.”
“Want a juice box, Paige?” Tasha asks. “We’ve got apple, orange, and prune…mmmmm, we should probably skip that last one.”
Once they are out of earshot, the door closing behind them, I turn back to Nate. The immediate crisis is averted, but the stress still clings to him.
“Are you okay, Nate?” I ask, lowering my voice. “Have you heard anything from…her?”
He knows who I mean. Paige’s mom. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “No. Last I heard, she was somewhere in Florida. ‘Finding herself.’” He lets out a short, humorless breath. “I still email photos of Paige to her folks, her grandparents. Never hear anything back. It is what it is.”
The casual dismissal doesn’t hide the old hurt. He clearly feels Paige needs a mom, even if he has no romantic interest left in the woman who’d been her mother.
“Thank you, Sophia,” Nate says then, his voice thick with gratitude, shifting the subject. “For trusting Tasha with her. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Tasha stepped up. And you needed a solution,” I say, giving him a small smile. “Go make your calls, Nate. Find a real babysitter. And Tasha just earned herself some serious good karma.”
“I can have HR take an hour or two of my sick time or PTO to pay for her time,” Nate says, his rigid sense of fairness asserts itself even in crisis.
I wave him off. “Nate, this is real life, and real life is messy. If we asked corporate or HR, they wouldn’t have let this happen at all, but that’s why they pay me to figure these things out.
” I smile at him. “You’re an asset to our department.
And you’re our friend. You’d do the same for any of us. ”
He nods, a flicker of something like gratitude in his eyes, then pulls out his phone, a measure of the usual Nate-like efficiency returns to his movements. I watch him for a moment, then head back to the break room to distribute assignments. The ER is calm for the moment, but the day is young.
An hour later, just as things are starting to pick up, Nate finds me. “Got it sorted out. My neighbor, Mrs. Swanson—it turns out her flight got in earlier than she expected. She can take Paige. She’s on her way now.”
“Good,” I say. “How was Paige with Tasha?”
A rare, genuine smile touches Nate’s lips.
“Actually…really good. When I went to check on them, Tasha was showing Paige how to make a butterfly out of a tongue depressor and some tape. Paige was actually laughing.” He shakes his head, a hint of wonder in his voice.
“Never would have pegged Tasha for a craft queen.”
“People surprise you,” I say, thinking of Jack, of his unexpected transfer, his quiet pursuit.
When Nate’s neighbor, Mrs. Swanson, a kind-faced woman who looks like she bakes cookies for the entire street, arrives, Paige gives Tasha a quick, shy hug. Tasha, to her credit, looks almost as surprised as Paige, but she pats the girl’s shoulder awkwardly.
“See you around, kiddo,” Tasha says, trying for casual but her voice is a little softer than usual. “Let me know what you think about the ending of that book, okay?”
As Nate walks Paige out, I catch Tasha watching them go, a thoughtful, almost wistful expression on her face before her usual bored mask slips back into place.
Interesting. Very interesting.