1
ROWAN
By the time I peel my gloves off and drop them into the red bin, my hands ache in a way that goes past muscle and into bone. The trauma bay smells like antiseptic and iron, a scent that never quite leaves your clothes, no matter how many times you wash them. My hair is pulled back, the bun beginning to loosen at the nape of my neck, escaped strands brushing damp skin. I've been on my feet for fourteen hours, maybe longer. The clock on the wall stopped meaning anything hours ago.
I scrub my hands again. Fingers under hot water, nails pressed against the brush, palms dragging together until my skin burns. It’s an old habit. A small pocket of control where I can still find it.
“Rowan,” Lila calls from the doorway, leaning her shoulder into the frame. Her eyeliner is flawless, as always, which feels offensive at this hour. Dark curls spill over one shoulder, still glossy despite the fact that she's been working just as long as I have. Her burgundy scrubs skim her curves, a color she insists makes her look less exhausted. “You alive in there, or should I call a code?”
“I'm breathing,” I murmur, rinsing and shutting off the tap with my elbow. My voice comes out even, the way it always does. “That counts.”
Lila grins and steps aside as a nurse pushes a gurney past, the wheels squeaking against the linoleum floor. The sound cuts through the low hum of voices and monitors, the familiar cadence of the trauma floor. “You worked twelve hours yesterday and picked up tonight. You know sleep exists, right?”
“I've heard rumors.” I dry my hands, grab my coat from the hook, and shrug into it. The fabric is soft with age, worn thin at the cuffs. The navy wool hangs just past my hips, practical and unassuming. Exactly my style. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
Lila's smile slips into warmth, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. She reaches out and squeezes my forearm, her touch brief but affectionate. “Text me when you get home.”
“I will.”
She doesn't believe me, and she's right not to. I never remember.
The hall outside the trauma unit hums with late-night quiet, the rush eased into softer voices and slower footsteps. The overhead lights are dimmed to half brightness, throwing everything into muted shades of beige and gray. A janitor pushes a mop bucket near the elevator bank, the wheels rattling faintly. The hospital never truly sleeps, but it does slow its breathing. I nod at the night charge nurse stationed behind the desk, wave to security hovering near the entrance, and head for the exit with my bag slung over one shoulder. It’s a mess inside, receipts, half-filled notebooks, pens with missing caps, an old granola bar I forgot to eat, but I know exactly where everything is… mostly.
The cold hits me the moment the automatic doors slide open. It’s not brutal, but enough to make my lungs pull tight, and my breath come out in a visible puff. Winter in Charlotte never commits. It just dips its toes in and retreats, leaving damp air and wind that cuts through clothes like they’re made of gauze. I tug my scarf higher around my neck, the soft cream wool bunching under my chin, and shove my hands into my pockets. My keys jingle against loose change.
I head toward the parking lot, my boots scuffing against the pavement. Or where the parking lotshouldbe.
A row of barricades blocks the entrance, orange plastic glowing under floodlights. A handwritten sign flaps in the wind, the edges torn and curling. TEMPORARY CLOSURE. CONSTRUCTION.
“Seriously?” I mutter, stopping in front of the barrier. My breath clouds in the air, and I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder.
A security guard stands near the barricade, hands clasped in front of him, wearing a thick jacket zipped to his chin. He's older, maybe late fifties, with gray stubble and tired eyes. He looks apologetic before I even speak, lifting one hand in a placating gesture. “Overflow's open, doc. Cut around the back, past Ridley.”
My shoulders tense, muscles tightening under my coat. “Behind the mill?”
“It's converted now,” he adds quickly, his voice taking on a reassuring tone. “Labs, offices. Lights are on and there’s cameras everywhere. Safe as it gets.”
I hesitate, my gaze sliding past him toward the darkened path that curves around the side of the hospital. The Ridley TextileMill rises in the distance, its red brick facade darkened by age and pollution, the windows glowing faintly from within. I can see scaffolding along one side, the metal glinting in the light. The conversion has been slow, dragging on for months.
I nod once. Arguing won't bring my car any closer. “Thanks.”
“No problem, doc. Be careful out there. We’re supposed to get snow tonight.”
The path behind the hospital is narrow, the concrete cracked from years of neglect before someone decided biotech labs needed exposed brick and character. Weeds push through the fissures, brittle and brown in the cold. The Ridley Textile Mill looms to my left, its walls scarred with decades of rain and grime. A chain-link fence runs parallel to the building, sections of it sagging under their own weight. The wind drifts through the alley, carrying the scent of cold metal and damp stone, along with a faint trace of diesel from the construction equipment parked near the far end.
I walk faster, my boots echoing against the pavement. The sound reverberates off the brick walls, too loud in the silence. My phone is already in my hand, my thumb hovering over the unlock screen, a habit drilled into me by too many safety seminars and one overly dramatic self-defense course Lila dragged me to. The screen glows faintly, illuminating my face in the dark. I glance at it, then back up, scanning the path ahead.
Halfway down, my instincts prickle. It's not fear exactly. It's the same awareness that settles in my chest when a patient's vitals change before the monitor reacts. A wrongness I can't identify. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and my grip tightens on my phone. I slow my steps, listening past the wind and the distant hum of traffic from the main road.
Then I hear it, a sound pulled from deep in a chest that shouldn’t still be working, low and broken, the unmistakable rasp of labored breathing. I stop short, my boots scraping to a halt on the concrete. My heartbeat picks up, thudding against my ribs.
The wind rustles trash near a dumpster ahead, the plastic bags brushing against metal. The security lights hum overhead, their glow spilling across concrete and brick in sickly yellow pools. I listen again, my heart tapping harder, the sound filling my ears.
Another noise answers, shorter this time, pain wrapped tight in a low, guttural groan.
“Hello?” My voice travels farther than I expect, bouncing off the walls and fading into the night.
Silence follows, thick enough to press against my ears. My breath comes faster now, fogging in front of me. I wait, counting the seconds, willing myself to turn around and walk back to the guard, ask for an escort, and do the sensible thing.
