like real people do

“We’re going to miss you kid.” You could place the familiar British accent with your eyes closed, and you smile at the man in scrubs leaning against the door of the break room, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m not dying, Doctor Price. Everyone is being so dramatic, I’m only moving four floors up. I’ll still be around.” You sling the only intact strap of your backpack over your shoulder and sigh. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll hate it and end up coming back.” It’s unlikely. You’re getting a raise with this transfer, one you desperately need, and panic bubbles up in the back of your throat when you consider what would happen without the pay bump. You’re struck with the memory of Riley’s face last week, the disappointed pout tugging at her lips when you told her she couldn’t get a new backpack this year during back to school shopping, the way she frowned and turned sullen when you refused her the fancy pencil case that all of her friends are getting. It twists your stomach until you shove it aside.

“They’re lucky to have you.” Price’s eyes soften. The unit is tight knit. It’s not a nurse-resident-attending-administrative battle down here. The ED functions like a human body. All parts and pieces moving together as one to achieve a single goal: keeping these people alive until you can get them upstairs. These are your people, coworkers turned friends turned family. You never imagined you’d be cleaning out your locker to leave the ED, but your life has changed a lot in the last few years, and you can’t afford to be selfish. “If you need anything, you let me know.”

“Thanks.” You swallow the lump in your throat. You’ve already said your goodbyes, had your cake, wrapped your arms around everyone for a hug, all that is left is this single act. Badge out of the ED for the last time. It’s terrifying, and you know he can see it on your face, because he places a hand on your shoulder with a firm squeeze.

“You’ll be alright. This is a good thing for you, for your family. I know it will be hard, considering, but you’re going to be amazing. We all know it.” Your hands fist at your side as you cling to your control, beat back the tears trying to force their way forward. “And don’t let Simon give you any shit.” Simon?

Oh.

Doctor Riley.

He’s respected, revered, and notoriously private. Head of the department, he’s widely known as one of the best neonatal surgeons in the field, and the NICU here has one of the highest survival rates in the country.

Of course you already know all this from personal experience, but no one knows that. At least, no one in the unit.

Especially him.

You force a smile for Price’s benefit, and he sighs. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Riley’s at that age where her mouth never stops moving.

During the car ride home, she regals you with a full recap of her day, down to what her best friends ate for lunch at camp (Lexi had peanut butter banana sandwiches, Aya had tamagoyaki, and Alice had leftover pizza that a counselor heated up for her. Lucky.) By the time dinner is over and her shower is done, she’s moved onto her big plans for weekend (riding, riding and more riding, followed by a rematch in Monopoly, and maybe some s’mores. She has your whole life planned out as well as her own.) She runs out of words by the time she’s in bed, but the last three are always the same.

Love you Daisy.

The nurse assigned to babysit you for the next month (at least) is Keona. She goes by Key, and tells you her name means god’s gift, though she insists it means satan’s spawn.

You’re thinking it’s more like god’s gift, based on the way she floats like an angel around the unit.

“You’ll be fine. Just follow me for a bit, do what I do, and then you’ll be good on your own. We’re a level four, so the ratio is usually one to one, two to one if you’ve got one that’s super stable.” You’ve never worked a floor that has a one nurse to one patient ratio, but you expected it here. She badges through a set of doors, and you follow dutifully behind her, marking room numbers and placards, trying to memorize the lay of the land. “This is the best worst job in the world, and it’s a little bit of everything… including psych,” she gives you a look, before mouthing “parents.” Your stomach twists.

“I’m sure.”

“You worked float pool for a bit, right?” Float pool is literally what it sounds like. There’s a group of nurses that cover scheduling gaps in all the departments. Some love it, some hate it. You were on the fence.

“Yeah I took some time off a bit ago for some family stuff and worked prn as a float.” If she has questions, she keeps them to herself, which is a relief.

“Cool. Like I said, I’ve heard good things so I don’t doubt you’ll be fine. If you can get to a point where you’re comfortable and happy here, you’ll never want to leave. Trust me.” The two of you round the corner to the nurse’s station, where a very tall, very broad man in scrubs is tapping away on a tablet. “Doctor Riley.” He glances up, and the world turns technicolor.

This is not a man, this is a mountain. An impenetrable force of granite and slate towering over you with crystalline blue eyes that narrow in on your face with a question roiling inside them. He has a strong jaw, a strong stance, and hands the size of your head, so big you cannot fathom how he performs surgery on such small organs. You never, ever seen OR scrubs look right on someone either. They’re usually big and baggy, gaping somewhere or another, but on him… they’re perfect. Just looking at him makes you dizzy.

You shouldn’t be so affected. You didn’t think you would be so affected, but your pulse is pounding in your ears so loud you’re sure someone can hear it, and your blood pressure is sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean, trying to take you with it.

His brow furrows. He frowns.

“This is Daisy. She’s new. Transferred up from the ED.”

“Daisy.” The hair on the back of your neck rises at the sound of your name on his lips. He’s got a British accent like Price, except it’s strange, different, and in the depths of your memory you recall something being said about how they go way back. You extend your hand in a polite greeting. He scowls, and ignores the gesture altogether. “You can’t wear perfume in here.” What? It’s standard that body spray or perfume is not appropriate for more vulnerable patient populations… and you’re not wearing any. You blink and drop your hand as your cheeks burn.

“I’m not wearing perfume?” His expression darkens with disapproval, and you feel like a bug on the floor, waiting to be squished.

“Then you’ll need more mild or unscented soap.” He glances over your shoulder, already moving on. “Excuse me.” Key cringes and shoots you a sympathetic look.

“Okay so… he’s a bit abrasive. He’s not super friendly but we give him a pass because he’s the actual best. In the world.” You shrug, and hope you sell the indifference.

“I think all surgeons are more akin to cactus than they are to teddy bears, aren’t they?” She laughs.

“He’s a bit of both. Wait until you see him holding a baby, you’ll forget all about the cactus part.” Your breath hitches.

“Right.”

That night, it storms.

Lightning strikes in the distance again and again, throwing up a chorus of thunder that rattles the house, playing out behind the echo of pouring rain.

A tiny voice warbles from your door.

“Daisy?” You should have gone and got her when it started up, but sometimes she sleeps through them. Sometimes.

“Come here ladybug.” You haul her up into your side, tucking your body pillow behind her so she’s surrounded. She feels too small in the span of the king bed, like she could lost in the sea of blankets and pillows. She never caught up to her classmates, and even though she’s smart as a whip, a strong wind could knock her over, and still needs a booster seat.

“I hate the storms.” Her whisper brushes against your collarbone, and you rub her back.

“I know, it’s okay. This one is moving pretty quick.” The psychologist says she doesn’t remember, that she was too young, but you know she’s wrong. Riley’s instinctual fear of thunderstorms is more than a child’s nervous disposition. It’s ingrained trauma rearing its head, trying to drag her back to the worst night of her life, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t fix it. You can’t turn back time.

"Are the horses in? Mabel doesn't like the storms." The lump in your throat tries to stick before you force it down.

"They're in. Don't worry." She yawns and snuggles closer.

"'kay." You hold her as tight as she will allow as the storm rolls away, your own grip slackening with sleep, dreams and nightmares merging into one and playing out behind your eyes.

Riley half dead in a hospital bed-

and Doctor Riley holding his tiny namesake’s hand.