Page 86 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
The Bureau is patient.
Marco is not.
At work, the days stack clean and regular until they don't.
On a Wednesday that starts with an empty subway and a hot coffee, I'm midway through a triage rush when the floor tilts.
I'm not lightheaded.
I'm off balance in a way that makes the room feel closer than it is.
I hand off a chart, tell Rizzo I need a minute, and walk to the staff bathroom like I'm counting steps to the shore.
The light in there is too bright.
The tile is cold through my shoes.
I brace my hands on the sink and breathe until the muscles in my throat stop trying to climb.
It does not help.
The wave crests and I make it to a stall just in time.
It's not dramatic.
It's clean and quick and humiliating in a quiet way that leaves my eyes wet.
I sit there and listen to the fan while my body decides what it wants to be.
When I can stand, I rinse my mouth.
The mint is sharp.
I watch my face in the mirror, not because I like what I see, but because I need to check that I still look like someone who can take a blood pressure and give a straight answer.
Rizzo knocks once and asks if I'm okay.
I say yes and blame stress and a bad bagel.
She gives me a packet of crackers from her pocket and tells me to keep one in my cheek like I'm hiding a secret.
It makes me smile even as my stomach turns again.
I go back to the floor and finish the shift.
I don't Google anything.
I don't count days.
I make a note to drink more water and eat something with salt before the next run of patients, and I keep my head down.
The thought does not leave.
It sits in the edge of my vision like a person I know from a block over.
It does not say hello.
It does not go away.
