“Nice work in there,” I tell her. “The patient feels comfortable with you. That matters in what we do.”
She nods her head. “Thanks, Dr. Fisher.”
I scan my watch. “We have two more patients to see before we can wrap up for the day. Why don’t you go into 446 and begin? I’ll meet you in there.”
Samantha spins on her heel and walks eagerly to her next patient. She is going to be a great doctor. This is where she wants to be. She is never in a hurry to end her shift. It reminds me of myself at her age.
Shit, it reminds me of myself today. I made it a late night last night, which is why I find myself in the break room, grabbing a cup of coffee at six in the evening.
There’s chattering behind me, which I typically ignore, but now I find it hard to do that for some reason. I recognize Trudy’s voice.
The paper cup in my hand begins to warm as I slowly pour the hot coffee.
“Melissa Rivers, you did not.” Trudy laughs.
My body is instantly on high alert from that name. Not because it’s the woman who’s been invading my thoughts for far too long, but because it sounds familiar.
Melissa Rivers.
I know I’ve heard that before.
Melissa Rivers.
The name settles in my chest like something dropped into water—slow, heavy ripples spreading outward.
I keep my back turned, hand wrapped around the paper cup, pretending to focus on pouring the coffee even though it’s already full. The chatter behind me continues—Trudy’s voice warm and familiar, Melissa’s softer underneath it.
“You’re terrible,” Melissa says, laughing. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“That look on your face says everything,” Trudy counters. “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
That’s where I’ve heard the name before. Not in passing. Not on a schedule. Not on a chart.
A room. A different version of myself. A younger man, sitting too stiff in a chair, hands clasped together because if he let them rest at his sides, they might shake.
Rivers.
My grip hardens on the cup.
I turn slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the stainless-steel cabinet across the room.
It’s her. Of course it is.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she listens. The line of concentration between her brows that appears when she’s thinking. I’ve seen it before—just not like this. Not standing. Not laughing. Not alive in a way that has nothing to do with survival.
She looks different outside of a hospital bed. Outside of fear.
But the eyes are the same. Her hair is pulled back every day here, in a professional manner. But I recall the long, blonde hair. The memory hits hard and sharp.
A hospital room late at night. The hum of machines. A young woman sitting at the bedside, fingers laced with her husband’s, listening to me explain things no one should have to hear at twenty-two.
Melissa Rivers. Widow.
My chest tightens, breath catching before I can stop it.
I shouldn’t be standing here. I shouldn’t be listening. I definitely shouldn’t be remembering the way she looked at me that night—like I was both her lifeline and her executioner.
