Page 6 of When the Smoke Clears

Compelling myself onto legs that feel like jelly, I take two brisk laps around the nursing station, flailing my hands like I can shake off the adrenaline clinging to my skin.

Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Quincy Adams, Jackson, Van Buren, Harrison, Tyler. By the tenth president, my nerves have eased just enough to form coherent thoughts.

Then, a sharp crash erupts down the hall, followed by the shrill wailing of monitors.

My badge swings against my chest as I sprint into room 3A. Connor’s body jerks uncontrollably, the metal frame of his hospital bed groaning beneath each violent movement.

He’s having another seizure—a bad one.

I snatch the rescue nasal spray from the drawer and angle his shoulder, guiding him onto his side. His limbs thrash, heels kissing the sheets, breath stuttering as the spray atomizes in his nostrils.

I check my watch, counting the seconds.

The seizure crests, then slowly loosens its grip as his body softens. I glance at the monitors where his heart rate and oxygen are stabilizing.

After rolling him onto his back, I administer the medication through his IV. After a few moments, he blinks with groggy, heavy-lidded eyes, offering me a lopsided, half-drunk smile.

“Will you marry me, Isla?”

A smile tugs at my worry. His proposal is a familiar ritual. Comfort, in a strange way.

The first time he asked was a year ago, when he became lucid after a prolonged seizure. Star-crossed lovers, he’d said, citing our age difference with his sixteen-year-old Shakespearean theatrics.

“Good to have you back,” I whisper, cooling his forehead with a cloth.

“How long was this one?” he slurs.

“Two minutes and thirty-two seconds.”

“I’m tired…” His voice trails as his eyes flutter closed.

“Sleep,” I murmur. “You’re okay now.”

His breathing settles into an easy rhythm. I stay until I’m sure, then wander back to the nurses’ station. My gaze drifts to the pink pastry box that some kind family left behind. The donuts radiate temptation.

In the rare moments of silence, they call my name.

“Islaaa…you know you want me,” the crumb donut whispers seductively, mocking my exhaustion.

I’ve been on my feet since seven this morning, and the end of my twelve-hour shift is still hours away. Pediatric nursing is not for the faint of heart.

Needing caffeine more than temptation, I turn away from Mr. Maple Bar and his friends and head to the break room for coffee.

The rich aroma lifts my spirits as I mentally sift through my to-do list: call the doctor, update charts, and—unavoidably—deal with that voicemail. A cold unease slithers up my spine.

With coffee in hand, I settle at my computer, ready to chart Connor’s episode.

My phone rattles again inside the drawer.

I ignore it. Again.

At six thirty, Erin struts in wearing pink scrubs decorated with cheerful Winnie-the-Poohs. Her bright smile softens the hard edges of my day. She opens her arms, and I melt into her hug—the kind only a best friend can give.

“How was your day?”

“It could’ve gone better.” My scrubs suddenly feel too tight, too itchy.

“Something happened with one of the kids?”