Page 4 of Night Shift

I lifted one eyebrow. It puzzled me as to how he knew my name. I was sure I hadn’t mentioned it yet.

“You have a look of confusion on your face. You’re probably wondering how I know your name,” he said smugly, pausing long enough to let my brain catch up. “It’s on your badge.”

How stupid could I look in front of this man? I snapped my head down. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that. It’s actually Samantha, but I go by Sam for short.”

“Looking forward to the next chapter, Sammich.”

Did he just call me Sammich?

Before I could even raise my head and respond, he’d left the break room. Dumbfounded, I remembered I only had a few more minutes on break and needed to eat. There was no telling when I’d get another chance. The whole point of taking a break was to stuff food into your mouth as quickly as possible because you never knew if you’d get another opportunity during your shift. As I gobbled down my sandwich, I mulled over what had happened to me in the last few hours. My mind kept returning to the drunken patient who had unsettlingly reminded me of my asshole father and all those years I had spent living in a nightmare. And I was surprised by the unnerving feelings that had been stirred by this man, this doctor, who had gone from barking orders at me to calling me Sammich.

Despite his standoffish nature, he possessed an undeniable charm, a kind of rough, untamed allure that was hard to ignore. His scruffy salt-and-pepper beard that subtly hinted at his age was a striking contrast to his curly, dark brown hair. In the fluorescent lighting of the break room, his eyes had appeared almost gray. While his smooth bronze skin suggested he spent time outdoors, his clinical demeanor suggested otherwise. Remarkably, his face was devoid of wrinkles, likely a result of rarely smiling. I chuckled at the thought. It was as if with his aloof attitude he was challenging the world to take him as he was, without any pretense or effort to conform. Although he came off as a jerk, there was something intriguing, albeit frustrating, about him. Why were all the hot ones such arrogant assholes?

I bolted upright, my heart racing. The beats echoed in my ears, making me feel like a frantic, trapped animal, as if I were still running in my nightmare. Sweat beaded on my forehead as the remnants of the dream flickered through my mind. Reaching up, I clutched at my chest. It was the same dream that had haunted me since childhood.

It always started the same way, with the sickening stench of bourbon and the slurred shouts of my father echoing down the hallway to my room. The darkness of the night would then envelop me as I ran, driven by sheer desperation. Behind me, my father’s voice would thunder, his drunken fury the driving force behind my terror. His fingers, calloused and unyielding, grazed the ends of my hair, but I was too quick, darting out of his reach and sprinting toward the safety of the woods behind our house.

In my dream, as in my distant reality, the night was my ally, guiding me along a moonlit path. I maneuvered through thick brambles, branches catching on my clothes as I wove in and out of the dense underbrush. I knew these woods like the back of my hand. Every root and rock was a familiar landmark in my escape. Just ahead lay my secret box, beside the gnarled, old oak tree. It was my shelter, a place where the shadows swallowed me whole, somewhere I could be away from his intoxicated rage.

My breath came in short, sharp gasps, misting in the chilly night air. Leaves crunched beneath my feet as I tried to tune out my father’s distant, muffled curses.

If I just kept running, if I could reach my secret sanctuary, I would be safe. Safe until the alcohol claimed him, lulling him into such a stupor that he would forget his own daughter, forget the chase, forget the violence that lurked in his fists.

I dove into my hiding spot. My heart pounded in my ears, a relentless drumming that seemed to ricochet off the sides of the box. I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and trying to make myself as small as possible. Suddenly, the forest fell silent, as if it was holding its breath. And I knew I was alone again. I had mastered the art of evasion. All I had to do was run fast and hide well, and the man who should have been my protector couldn’t catch me.

But the nightmare didn’t end there. Today it seemed to cling to me, the remnants of terror engulfing me like a suffocating shadow. I gasped for air, a panic attack clawing its way up my throat. My pulse raced with a wild, uncontrollable rhythm that threatened to claim my ability to breathe.

I was no longer that little girl in the woods, but the fear, the sense of helplessness, was as real as it had been back then. It was a reminder of where I’d come from, of the demons I carried within me.

Struggling for air, I stumbled out of bed, searching my small one-bedroom apartment for something, anything, to help me breathe. My bedroom offered no relief, so I staggered into the kitchen, my chest heaving. There, I found a paper bag. Clutching it around my mouth, I inhaled and exhaled, trying to steady the rapid rise and fall of my chest.

“Janie, my therapist,” I muttered to myself, “focus on what she taught you, Sam.” I closed my eyes, forcing myself to recall my therapist’s words, the strategies she’d taught me for managing these crippling episodes. Should I call her? It had been ages since a panic attack had hit me this hard. But then, today hadn’t been just any day.

If I had any hope of getting through this, I needed to use the mindfulness techniques she’d taught me.

Hurriedly, I scanned my apartment to find five things I could see. Two bananas on the counter, a stack of flattened moving boxes in the center of the living room, my favorite book sitting on the end table, my clogs by the front door, and my keys on the table. Next, four things I could touch. I found the saltshaker, the mail I’d been ignoring on the table, the fuzzy blanket crumpled on the sofa, and the lock of hair I always twisted around my finger. “Come on, focus, Sam,” I murmured to myself, continuing to press the bag over my mouth and nose. Then I sought to find three things I could hear. A slow drip from the faucet, my neighbor’s TV, and a dog barking in the distance. Now, two things I could smell. A lavender double-wick candle and a half-empty bag of coffee. And last, one I could taste. The box of Cap’n Crunch on the counter. I let the paper bag fall from my lips as the panic receded, then glanced around the room again.

Nestled in a rundown building in a less-than-desirable neighborhood, my apartment was a small haven I had carved out for myself. The walls, once dull and peeling, now boasted a fresh coat of cheerful yellow paint. It was a color that always managed to lift my spirits. Despite the unit’s modest size, I had been able to arrange the space to feel cozy and welcoming. A new sofa, adorned with bright throw pillows, occupied one corner of the living room, facing a small TV that sat on a secondhand stand. The single bedroom was cramped, but I kept it tidy. Every item in this apartment, from the thrift-store curtains to the potted plants on the windowsill, was a testament to my independence. It wasn’t much, but it was mine—a small sanctuary where I was rebuilding my life, one day at a time. Soon enough, my new job, as challenging as it might be, would earn me a good living, and I’d find a better place.

Taking another shaky breath, I steadied myself against the counter as my mind, traitorous as it was, flickered back to my first day at St. John’s Hospital. Over and over, it replayed the dark image of a drunk man—my patient—slamming his car into a minivan, killing two young children and seriously harming a third. Although I hadn’t seen the accident, I’d witnessed the aftermath, the lives torn apart. The distraught mother had arrived at the hospital covered in a mixture of her own blood and that of her daughter. Her anguished screams as she was told about the loss of the two little boys had shattered my heart. I rubbed my wrist where phantom nails dug into my skin. The drunk man’s face haunted me, conjuring up memories of my father pulling out onto the road and swerving at the last second but still slamming into the side of an SUV.

This was my reality now. Saving lives and dealing with loss was what I had chosen, what I had worked so hard for. I was determined to make my life count, particularly when things were tough, unlike the abusive father I had and unlike the kind mother I’d never truly known.

“This is your path, Sam,” I whispered to myself. “You’re here to make a difference, to fight for those who can’t.” And with that thought, I found a sliver of peace.

Throwing the paper bag in the garbage can beneath the sink, I pulled a glass from the cabinet, got a drink of water, and returned to bed. I needed to sleep and be rested for the day ahead. It was part of the job. If I made a mistake, I could kill someone. In the often chaotic turmoil of the ED, I had to be my best, stay in control, and politely manage the thousands of demands that came my way.

Chapter two

As I walked into St. John’s Hospital, where I’d spent more than the last decade of my life as an ED doc, a familiar sense of frustration washed over me. I was thirty-nine, teetering on the edge of forty, and the weight of my years in medicine was bearing down on me. Each step through the hospital seemed heavier than the last. Here I was, starting the second night of my monthly night shift rotation, questioning every decision that had led me to this point. Had it all been worth it? The constant grind, the never-ending stream of patients, the battles with bureaucracy—it all seemed to blend into a monotonous rhythm that left me more discouraged and exhausted with each day that passed. The prospect of turning forty only amplified my internal crisis. Was this relentless cycle of night shifts and emergency medicine all there was to my life? Had my passion for saving lives been buried under a mountain of disillusionment and fatigue? These thoughts swirled through my mind, a stormy prelude to another long night.

Another thing I was tired of was the fucking incompetence in this department. Relatively speaking, we did the same shit every single day. There was a routine to it. Routine provided structure. Structure reduced error. Reduction in error theoretically led to positive patient outcomes. That was what we were supposed to be doing, right? Saving lives? Wasn’t that why we took the Hippocratic oath? To do no harm?

I settled into a chair in front of a computer at one of the clinical workstations and typed in my credentials. If there were ten more of me in this department, we would never have issues. But instead, I had nurses who seemed like they’d just gotten out of diapers and doctors so old I feared they might turn to dust if I breathed on them too hard.

The change to the night shift had brought me nothing but headaches, frustration, and the onset of a new twitch in the corner of my right eye. My coworkers already thought I was an asshole; adding a twitch was probably going to make me seem even more unapproachable. Not that being an unapproachable asshole was necessarily a bad thing, especially when it kept the most annoying people away. Rewind a few years, and it had been a different story. When I’d first started practicing, I’d enjoyed helping people and teaching my peers. Now, I fucking hated it when nurses asked me stupid questions. My medical degree wasn’t meant to be used as their personal Google search. I even found myself scoffing at new doctors who put in every fucking order that existed because they couldn’t use their brains to figure out what the problem was on their own.

I began to scroll through the current patient load, but my mind drifted. There was one upside for tonight—Bethany.

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