The tiny catheter wiggled a bit beneath the thin skin of my hand while she fussed with the tape covering the entry site of my IV. I frowned and peered up, seeing Michaels’ infernal, frizzy orange hair, and then my surroundings. Yep. I was definitely in Step-Down.

Unfortunately, it appeared Step-Down, the hospital wing for stabilized patients adjacent to the ICU, was short staffed, and Michaels clearly had hours to make up—as usual.

“Looking good, Jacobs. You hang in there. We’re all worried about you,” she said, pulling at the tape again.

“Jesus, Michaels. Take it easy,” I said. My voice sounded like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together, and my throat burned.

She startled. “Oh.” With her finger, she pushed her black-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose, her tone more surprised than excited.

“If you’re here, who’s taking my shift?” I asked.

“I’m just going to—” She reached for the tape again.

I pulled away from her. “Would you fucking stop?” I snapped, already feeling guilty. It was true: nurses were the worst patients.

Dr. Rosenberg’s Italian leather shoes clicked across the tile. Concern hummed from his throat, and my chest fluttered. His ocean-blue eyes sparkled, even if he was seeing me in a sack-like hospital gown. My face probably looked like a misshapen tomato, but I still reached up to flatten the rats in my hair, hoping a decent hairdo would distract him from the rest of me.

I refused to let out a sigh, or stare too long at his perfectly thick eyebrows or squared jawline, or snarl at Michaels when she did everything I refused to do. After all, Dr. Rosenberg wasn’t mine. He belonged to Mrs. Rosenberg and their teenaged daughter. But, unlike Michaels, I didn’t have to fantasize that Dr. Rosenberg cared about me. He did. He was standing right next to my bed, scanning over my embarrassingly thin hospital gown and looking rather upset, even though he worked three floors below in the ER.

Dr. Rosenberg touched my hand, and I tried not to let a squeal spill from my mouth. His warm fingers traveled up my palm to my wrist, and then he waited quietly while he checked my pulse. “Strong, considering. We can probably—”

The PA system paged him, and he nodded to Michaels. “Take care of her.”

“Of course,” Michaels lilted.

My blood boiled at her flirtatious tone. He was gorgeous and smart and charming, but knowing he was married didn’t calm my instant and irrational jealousy, even if Michaels flirted with everything with testicles and a PhD.

After the doctor disappeared down the hall, I pushed up to sit higher on the bed. “What is today?”

“TGIF,” Michaels said with a sigh, checking my monitor.

“See if you can expedite my discharge, would you? I’m too late for today’s shift, but I can’t miss tomorrow. I’m supposed to cover for Deb.”

Deb Hamata and I had gone to nursing school together and had the same hire date. We had been through a lot together in St. Ann’s ER. She was the only colleague I referred to by first name, and the only nurse I wouldn’t annihilate for calling me Avery.

Michaels leaned in to gently push back a stray hair from my face. I recoiled. “You don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got you covered, sister.”

I crossed my arms and huffed as she walked away. Michaels was usually a lazy, unprofessional brat. She was just a few years younger than me, but her parents still paid her bills, leaving her without motivation for a solid work ethic. If a Bruno Mars concert were within driving range, she would call in sick. I had been burned enough times to know not to like anyone. At the moment, Michaels was compassionate and patient with my foul mood, making it very hard, but not entirely impossible, for me to dislike her.

I ran my fingers over my teeth. Thank God. All present. Felt my face. Whoa. Better than I imagined. I wiggled my toes. Yes. I’m walking out of here.

Not long after I took stock of my injuries, Michaels gave me the green light along with the few pieces of personal property that had been gathered from the wreckage. I hobbled from the sterile C.-diff-and-bleach smell of the hospital to the sweaty mildew odor of a cab.

The driver looked unsure as I retied the second gown around me that I’d used as a robe. “You sure you can go home just yet?” he asked.

“That bad, huh?”

I tried to ignore his curious eyes in the rearview mirror as I struggled to secure my seatbelt.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“You sick? You’re not gonna puke in my cab, are ya?”

“Car accident. I feel fine, thank you.”

“Your family couldn’t pick you up?”

“No family,” I said. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me to call anyone. I’d been alone for so long, family was a foreign concept to me. There was an aunt and a few cousins in Florida, but I didn’t know them. Certainly not enough to let them know I’d been in a minor accident.

I kept busy enough with work that I barely noticed I was alone, but family was good for situations like this. Family kept you from having to ride home in a cab wearing two hospital gowns and oatmeal-colored non-skid socks.

“Where’s your clothes, kid?” he asked.

“In my closet.”

“Don’tcha have someone to bring you some? Anyone?”

I shook my head, giving him the address of my building. The driver finally pulled away, and after he learned the answer to the expected what do you do, he talked over jazz radio about his bunions, a life-long aversion to raw vegetables, and his two-pack-a-day Pall Mall habit. For some reason, when people learned I was a nurse, they felt the urge to confess their health sins. I guessed it was so I would either absolve them or diagnose them, but I had yet to do either.

“Is this the one, sweetheart?” the driver asked, pointing with his fat, tar-stained finger. “I think one of my ex-girlfriends lived here once.”

“I thought everyone your age married the first person they dated?”

He made a face. “Nah. I would have, but she wouldn’t wait for me.” He pointed to his embroidered hat that read VETERAN. “Navy.”

“Thank you for your service.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. His yellowed nails were lined with grime, and he had at least a day’s worth of silver scruff on his weathered face. He’d served our country and, by the looks of his hands, had worked harder jobs than driving a cab, compelling me to give him an extra-nice tip. I had no purse or pockets, and definitely no money. I opened my hand, revealing a few wadded up dollar bills and my keys.

“Let me just run up to get some more cash,” I said, my sore muscles complaining as I pushed open the door.

He huffed. “The hospital fares never pay.”

“No, I’ll pay you. Please wait here. I’ll be right back. Keep the meter running. I’ll pay you for your time, too.”

His eyes softened and he smiled. “Pay me next time, kid. Most people don’t even offer.”

For half a second, I’d forgotten there would be a next time. No telling what salvage yard my poor little sea-green Prius was in. It had crumpled around me as we cartwheeled together across the intersection into a patch of grass on the other side. I had somehow made it out in one piece, but there would be many more taxi rides in my future. That thought made my heart hurt. The Prius had protected me, and now it was spare parts.

“Thanks,” I said, looking at his license on the dash. “Melvin.”

“It’s just Mel.” He handed me a bent, smudged card. “Call me if you need another ride, but no more freebies.”

“Of course. I will. Thank you.”

He left me standing on the curb in front of the stoop of my building. I waved and then padded up the steps and pulled open the door, glad my apartment was only on the second floor. After just half a flight, my body slowed, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. I slid the key into the lock and turned it, shoving open the door and then leaning back against the wood until it closed.