Page 14 of Priest

The walls are bare. The furniture is sparse. I’ve let the space stay unfinished, because forcing comfort before it’s ready feels like another kind of lie.

Outside, the town wakes slower than Bay of Saints ever did. Fewer sirens. Less noise slipping through the walls.

That part was deliberate.

My phone vibrates on the counter with a calendar alert I set weeks ago, back when everything still felt provisional.

One month complete.

I exhale through my nose, more breath than relief, and set the mug down untouched. It’s already lukewarm anyway.

My new job has been steady in a way I didn’t expect.

Emergency departments don’t care what your private life looks like. Pain still comes through the doors. People still look to you when their whole world has narrowed to the space between one breath and the next.

That part I know.

The badge clipped to my scrubs carries my legal name, but most people call me Blue. It started as a nickname years ago and became something easier to live inside. Something small enough to offer without handing over everything else.

On my first shift, the charge nurse looked at the M.D. after my name, then at me, like both meant exactly nothing until I proved I could survive her ER.

Every emergency department has one. The nurse who knows which resident will freeze, which attending gets careless, and which room is about to go bad before the monitors start screaming. Doctors write the orders, but charge nurses keep the place breathing.

“All right, Dr. Thorne,” she said, handing me my first chart. “Let’s see if you’ve got the mettle for my floor.”

So I showed her.

By the end of the week, the residents stopped second-guessing my calls. After a month, charts land in my hand because people know I’ll see what needs doing.

Respect in a hospital lives in small things.

A chart passed over without argument. A nurse stepping aside because she knows you’ve got the airway. Trust built under fluorescent lights, one decision at a time.

I earn that kind of respect here.

Slowly.

Honestly.

Evan found me on my third day sitting in the break room with an untouched sandwich and a headache I was pretending didn’t exist.

He dropped a protein bar on top of my chart. “Tell me that sad little thing isn’t your lunch.”

I looked up.

Messy blond hair stuck up like his hands had lost a fight with it. His grin looked too wicked to be accidental.

“It was trying its best,” I said.

“Then we honor its service and move on.” He pushed the protein bar closer. “Eat, Blue. You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to survive on caffeine and spite.”

I took the bar because arguing required more energy than I had.

He made that easy. Evan notices everything, then gives people room to decide what they’re ready to hand over.