Her hand drifted up to her chest, under the collar of her scrub top, to the thin silver chain she always wore against her skin. Her fingers closed around two metal tags.
One was hers.
The other one said REYES, DANIEL M.
She held them for a moment. Then she let go.
In for four counts. Out for four counts.
Seven months of this.
She had picked this place on purpose. A quiet little hospital at the end of a dead-end road in the woods. A place where nobody asked what you used to do, or where you’d been, or why you flinched when a car backfired in the parking lot.
Some nights she counted the ceiling tiles. Forty-two in the break room. Sixty in the main hallway. Eighteen in the supply closet. Counting kept the old memories from climbing back in through the cracks.
The door creaked open behind her.
Linda Marsh, the oldest nurse on the floor, came in carrying an empty mug. Linda was sixty-one, with short silver hair and tired, kind eyes. She’d been a nurse at Pine Harbor for twenty-eight years. She’d buried a husband and raised three boys and paid off a mortgage on a little blue house in town on a nurse’s salary. Not much rattled her.
She saw the plastic mouse on the counter. Her mouth went tight.
“Don’t let him get to you, honey.”
“He doesn’t,” Annie said.
Linda studied her for a long moment.
“I’ve been watching you for seven months, you know. You never look at the monitors. Not once. But somehow you always know when a patient’s about to crash. Every single time. Before the alarm even goes off.”
Annie smiled a little.
“Lucky guess.”
“Mhm,” Linda said. She didn’t believe it for a second.
Annie carried the coffee back out to the desk. Teague took it from her without looking up from his phone.
“Thanks, Mouse.”
The clock on the wall read 2:51.
The storm hit harder. The overhead lights flickered once, went dim, and came back.
Teague was telling a story about a patient who’d swallowed a golf ball on a dare. The corpsmen were laughing so hard one of them was wiping his eyes.
Annie stood over by the supply cart, restocking gauze pads and tape. Her hands moved carefully. Neatly.
Her hands weren’t shaking now.
Nobody noticed that.
At 2:58, the ER went quiet.
Too quiet. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath.
Annie felt it first. The way your ears feel the air pressure change right before a thunderstorm breaks. Her eyes lifted to the ambulance bay doors. Then to the clock on the wall.
At 3:00 exactly, the radio on the trauma desk crackled.
Static first. Then a man’s voice, strained, fighting against wind and a roaring engine.
“Pine Harbor, Pine Harbor, this is Reaper Two. Inbound by ground. ETA eight minutes. One critical. Penetrating chest trauma. Multiple fragmentation wounds. Request trauma team standing by.”
Teague rolled his eyes.
“Reaper Two? What is that, a Boy Scout troop?”
Danny grabbed the handset. “Reaper Two, Pine Harbor. Say again your unit?”
“Negative, Pine Harbor. We need your best medic at the doors. Repeat, we need—”
Static swallowed the rest of it.
Then the voice came back. Clearer this time. Rougher.
“Does anyone there answer to Angel Six?”
The tray in Annie’s hands hit the floor.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
At TheArchivists, Lila is known for her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to uncover hidden gems within extensive archives. Her work is praised for its depth, authenticity, and contribution to the preservation of knowledge in the digital age.
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