Page 99 of The Golden Hour

“Triage, kid,” Ellen counters. “What’s the most important?”

“The health and safety of my wife and daughter,” Mason says immediately.

“You mend that first,” Ellen says. “The marriage will come later.”

Mason nods, agreeing with the words even as his heart aches.

Honey and Daisy first, always.

“So, when did this happen?” Mason asks, gesturing around them.

Ellen grins proudly. “We started organizing a couple months ago. You’re not the only one with grievances against this hospital. The Union’s been fighting like crazy to get us increases, and St. Mary’s said they didn’t have the budget.” Ellen’s lip curls. “But the CEO gave himself a nice bonus and raise last year. So… we strike.”

Mason smiles.

“Good for you,” he says. “How’s it been?”

“They’re being stubborn, but our Union is good and hitting them like a battering ram. They’ll fold and until they do, they’re going to learn,” Ellen says, before lifting the megaphone once more, blasting his eardrum. “What do we want?”

“Fair wages!”

“When do we want them?!”

“Right fucking now!”

Mason winces and rubs at his ear, turning back to Ellen. He suddenly feels a little torn, not wanting to cross the picket line, but needing to clock in for his first day back at work so he can provide for his wife and daughter.

“Do you want me to—should I—” Mason gestures to the protest with a questioning look, and Ellen snorts.

“Go do your shift, Carpenter,” Ellen says, slapping his back, a little harder than necessary punctuating her next words, “Then go home on time.”

Mason feels his shoulders drop at her words, and he nods firmly. That’s his goal. That’s what he’s going to do. Clock in and clock out for his job as a physician, because his duties as a husband and father are the ones he never clocks out of.

This job is temporary.

Honey and Daisy are forever.

It is that thought that has him walking toward the hospital doors, until Ellen’s voice makes him pause and turn back around.

“Dr. Mason Carpenter is crossing the picket line!” Ellen snickers into the megaphone, all the nurses turning toward him. She has a broad smile on her face as she points at him. “Everybody, boo that doctor!”

“Boooooooo...”

The nurses’ smiles take the sting out of it.

Mason finds himself chuckling lightly as he starts walking once more.

“Fight the power! Damn the man, save the empire,” Mason jokes as he hustles toward the entrance, dodging some of the nurses’ playful swats as he goes.

The humor dies the second he walks through the front doors, feels the arctic air conditioning blast him, and smells the familiar sterile scent of St. Mary’s Trauma Center.

He used to feel at home when he walked through the sliding doors, but now, as he keeps his head down and walks toward the locker room, he doesn’t feel that at all.

No.

He feels sick.

By morning handoffs, Mason knows two things for certain.