Page 72 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
Work steadies me.
I reset a splint that was slipping and talk a teenager out of a panic spiral with cold water and square breathing.
I irrigate a cut from a champagne flute and tape it so it will heal neatly.
I chart cleanly and file an internal note that reads like it should—Two federal agents made contact at 08:14, no patient information discussed, referred to counsel, card collected.
It goes in the right folder.
My hands keep moving even when my head goes white around the edges.
Every time the sliding doors breathe, I glance up and then down.
They don't come back.
The day fills itself the way it always does, with small emergencies that are big to the person having them.
A dizzy spell that is only low blood sugar and an empty stomach.
A toddler who needs a popsicle stick cut cleaned and a sticker that saysBrave.
A woman who will not sit down because she is afraid her heart will stop if she does.
I keep going because that is what the job is, motion with purpose.
When I finally clock out, the card in my pocket feels heavier than my badge.
Outside, the air is bright and thin.
I walk home because I need the distance.
The hallway in my building smells like laundry soap and last night’s onions.
My key turns, and quiet folds around me in a way that is not ordinary.
The kettle is full with fresh water.
The chair by the window is nudged two inches to the right so the sightline catches the stairwell.
The plant is turned so its weak side faces the light.
Small corrections that care about survival.
They belong to him.
“Nico,” I say.
He steps out from the shadow by the kitchen wall like he was always part of it.
Jacket on.
Tie gone.
He reads my face before I say anything.
“You were approached,” he says.
“At the start of shift.” I set my bag by the fridge and rinse two mugs because my hands need a task. “They said ‘organized crime’ and ‘civilians at risk’. They showed me a photo from thealley outside the bakery. Blurred. No name. I referred them to counsel.”
