When I arrive at the hospital, I park in the garage reserved for employees for the first time. Ahead of schedule, thanks to the car, I pass the bus stop that usually marks my arrival at work and walk across the street into Charleston Coffee Traders. They’re open twenty-four hours, catering to the long shifts, late nights, and early mornings that are the norm for hospital staff.

My phone buzzes as I get in line behind two EMTs. I’m surprised anyone is texting me this early. Traitorous excitement spikes, then plummets when I look at the screen.

Logan: Hey.

Logan: Heading into work.

Logan: Can we talk soon?

I chew on my bottom lip as I debate on how to respond. I want to be friends with Logan. It wasn’t just a line I used when we broke up a few weeks ago. But I’m wary of what that might lead to—mindful of how we progressed from friends to more before. I don’t know for sure if he’s moved on. He might just be friends with the chef, and I don’t know how to ask for sure. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I already have.

It’s my turn to order before I decide how to reply. I pay for a large vanilla latte and type three different responses while I wait for the barista to make my drink. I send the texts right as my coffee appears.

Evie: Me too.

Evie: Things are super hectic.

Evie: Yes, want to hear all about Mass Gen.

I’m embarrassed it took me five minutes to come up with that. I shake off the uncomfortable interaction and shove my phone back into my pocket as I cross the street. The bright glare of fluorescent lights and acrid scent of chemical cleaners hit me as soon as I walk through the sliding doors and pass the elevator bank on my way to the locker rooms. By the time I reach my locker, I’ve finished half my coffee.

I hang my jacket up, clip my badge to the front of my scrubs, and head for the stairwell to climb to the cardiac wing. It’s five flights, but I embrace the burn. The discomfort makes it harder to think about how I was hoping that text was from a different guy.

I’m so tired that I’m having trouble seeing straight. Hours of poring over patient charts and MRIs for the past two hours didn’t help. My vision blurs as I wash and dry my hands and wipe my face with the damp paper towel.

“Evie?”

I blink away the boulders resting on my eyelids and glance to the left. Rose Adams, another first-year resident specializing in internal medicine, is standing at the sink next to mine as she twists her red hair up into a messy bun.

“Yeah?”

“Want to come with us?”

“Come where?”