Eighty-Three

I hurried down the sterile, brightly lit corridor of the hospital, the echo of my footsteps blending with the soft hum of medical machinery. My shift was almost over, but I needed to find Jessica. As I rounded the corner, I spotted her near the nurses' station, reviewing a patient's chart.

"Jessica, hey," I called out softly, trying not to attract too much attention.

She looked up, her expression curious but patient. "Lilith, what's up?"

"Can we switch shifts again?" I asked, forcing a smile. "I know I've been asking a lot lately, but I really need to be on the evening shift today."

Jessica's brow furrowed, and she set the chart down. "Lilith, this is the third time this week. Who is Mr. Sharpe to you, really? You’ve been doing this for two months now, switching with everyone from morning to night just to be the nurse taking care of him all day. What's going on?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded. How could I tell her that Atlas Sharpe, the man lying unconscious in Room 3