Page 14 of Stalkers Anonymous

I hesitate, then respond.

Cole: Working on it. Had my first accountability meeting today. The guy seems almost half-way decent.

Emma: I’m proud of you, Cole. Seriously. I think this will do you a lot of good.

The simple message makes me more emotional than it should. Emma’s approval has always mattered more than anyone else’s, even if I pretend otherwise. Our parents died in a car accident when I was four and Emma was two and a half. Neither of us remembers much about them, and we were raised by our mom’s parents. But we lost Pop to lung cancer eight years ago, and Gigi a year after that. Emma’s the only family I’ve got left.

Cole: Don’t get sappy on me. Go write your brilliant dissertation.

Emma: Love you, too.

I put the phone away without opening the tracking app. It’s a small victory, one Tyler would probably approve of. The thought is both irritating and oddly satisfying.

As I drive home, I find myself mentally noting the triggers Tyler asked about. The neighbor’s new security system installation. The car that took the same three turns as me before continuing past my street.

By the time I reach my apartment, I’ve identified five distinct moments in just the past twenty-four hours where my attention shifted from normal awareness to something more focused, more intent. Five potential entries for the journal.

Maybe there’s something to this accountability thing after all—not that I’m ready to admit that to Tyler. Or to myself, really.

But as I unlock my apartment door and step inside, I find myself reaching for a pen, the blank pages of the notebook suddenly inviting rather than accusatory.

Just observations.

Just awareness.

It’s a start.

Chapter Four: Hailey

The scent of antiseptic never quite leaves my skin. No matter how many times I shower or scrub myself raw, it lingers—a permanent reminder of the twelve hours I spend in the ER three nights a week. It’s become such a part of me that I barely notice it anymore.

“Incoming trauma, five minutes out!” Marco, the charge nurse, calls out as he hangs up the phone. “MVA, single patient, mid-thirties male with possible head and chest injuries.”

I’m already moving, abandoning the chart I was updating. The movement of the emergency room is pure chaos to the untrained eye, but it’s artfully choreographed to those who know it intimately. Urgent yet precise, we all know exactly how to hit our marks.

“I’ve got it,” I say, heading for the trauma bay. Dr. Reyes, my attending physician, is right behind me, rattling off preparation orders.

“Let’s get a trauma panel ready. CBC, chemistries, CMP, type and cross for four units.”

I nod, already mentally checking through the checklist. Despite the calm in my movements, my heart rate picks up. This is the rush that keeps me coming back—the knowledge that the next few minutes might mean the difference between life and death for whoever is about to be rolled through those doors. The privilege and burden of that responsibility never gets old.

“You seem weirdly happy tonight,” Dr. Reyes comments, her dark eyes narrowing as she watches me prepare the trauma bay.

“Just hitting my stride,” I reply, not slowing down. “Hour eight is when it all clicks.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “You’re a strange one. Most of us are mainlining coffee by hour eight.”

“If you pre-gamed your coffee with a Red Bull at hour four, like me,” I say, grinning as I pull gloves from the dispenser, “you’d never have a chance to crash.”

The truth is, I am happy.

There’s something about the night shift that suits me—the intensity, the camaraderie, the shared sense of purpose while the rest of the world sleeps. During the day, I’m just another person shuffling through life. Here, in the ER, I’m exactly who I’m meant to be.

EMTs burst through the ambulance bay doors, wheeling in a bloody man on a gurney. “Matt Monroe, thirty-six, vehicle rolled down an embankment. GCS 14, pressure stable at 130/82, heart rate elevated at 135. Possible pneumothorax on the right side, decreased breath sounds, and contusions to the chest from the steering wheel. He’s got a laceration to the forehead but pupils are equal and reactive.”

I move in harmony with the team as we transfer the patient from the gurney to our bed. He’s conscious but dazed, blood matting his blond hair against his forehead.

“Mr. Monroe, you’re at Fort Collins Memorial Hospital,” I tell him, leaning into his field of vision as I attach cardiac monitoring leads to his chest. “I’m Dr. Brigham. We’re going to take good care of you, okay?”