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Winter was supposed to be the one season nobody could hate.
Snow gathered in soft, quiet layers outside the window, turning the streets pale and clean like the city had been given a second chance overnight. Across the hall, someone had already strung up colored lights, the faint glow blinking lazily against the early gray morning.
Somewhere downstairs, a radio played an old Christmas song, muffled through the walls.
The kind of morning that belonged in movies, warm drinks, thick sweaters, families packed into kitchens that smelled like sugar and cinnamon.
It was the perfect time of year to be with the people you loved.
Except John Carter didn’t really have anyone he wanted to spend it with.
Technically, he had family. But the word had never felt right.
Going home for Christmas meant tight smiles and long dinners and his father picking apart every life choice Carter had ever made like it was a hobby. It meant his mother sighing softly over the table, asking when he planned to “settle down,” as if medicine were just a phase he’d grow out of.
It meant feeling seventeen again, small and defensive and tired.
If he wanted to ruin his holiday, he’d go.
So he didn’t.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have friends. He did. The ER was full of them, in that strange, stitched-together way hospitals created families out of whoever survived the same chaos. But they had their own lives to go home to. Parents. Siblings.
Partners. Loud houses and crowded tables.
Carter wasn’t going to wedge himself into that.
Spending Christmas alone was already bad enough.
What he hadn’t planned on was getting sick right before it.
One quick trip to the store a few nights ago, no scarf, no hat, snow melting into his hair, and now he was paying for it.
His throat burned every time he swallowed. His cheeks stayed flushed no matter how cold the apartment was. A slow, floaty dizziness followed him around like a shadow, not strong enough to knock him down, just enough to make everything feel slightly off.
Like his body was working a second behind the world.
This morning wasn’t as bad as the last few days, though.
The fever had mostly broken. His head didn’t feel quite as heavy.
His voice was still rough, scraped raw at the edges when he tested it with a quiet cough, but he could function. He’d worked through worse. Everyone in the ER had.
So he didn’t bother calling in.
Didn’t even consider it, really.
The apartment was cold when he got out of bed, the floor biting at his bare feet. Pale winter light slipped through the blinds, thin and watery. Too early. Too quiet.
He moved slowly through his routine, like he was underwater.
Shower. Scrubs. Sweater.
He packed his bag at the kitchen counter out of habit more than thought.
A pen, always a pen. If he left one at the hospital, it would vanish by morning, swallowed by the department like everything else. A small notebook, corners bent and pages crammed with reminders in messy handwriting:
Monday — dentist.
Call Gamma.
Saturday — meet Debbie.
Little anchors to keep his life from drifting.
He hesitated, then unwrapped a lozenge and let it dissolve on his tongue, the sharp menthol sting making his eyes water. After a second he tossed the whole box into his bag too.
Something told him one wouldn’t be enough.
For a moment, he just stood there in the quiet kitchen. Fridge humming. Pipes ticking. No voices. No decorations. No reason to rush.
Outside, snow kept falling, soft and steady, like the world had nowhere else to be. Carter pulled on his coat, grabbed his keys, and told himself he felt fine.
He always did.
The weather wasn’t exactly cruel, but it wasn’t kind either.
It wasn’t a blizzard or anything dramatic, no howling wind, no sideways snow, no news warnings crawling across the bottom of a screen. Just that steady, persistent cold that slipped under layers and settled into your bones without asking.
The kind that lingered. It hit him the second he stepped outside his apartment building.
The warmth he’d carried from inside vanished almost instantly, stolen away by the air. His breath fogged in front of him, thick and white, curling up toward the pale morning sky. The metal door clicked shut behind him with a hollow sound that felt louder than it should’ve.
Snow had already claimed everything.
The sidewalks were coated in a thin, packed layer that crunched softly under his shoes. Tree branches sagged under the weight of it, and every now and then a clump would slide off with a quiet whump, scattering powder onto the ground below. The world looked muted, like someone had turned the volume down.
Even the traffic sounded distant.
The sky was strangely clear, soft gray-blue, almost pretty, like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to snow or stop.
Carter shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold.
His throat protested when he inhaled too sharply, the air burning all the way down.
Great.
He coughed into his sleeve and kept walking.
The parking lot beside the building looked like a graveyard of cars. Most of them were half buried, rounded mounds of white with only mirrors and bumpers sticking out. A few poor souls were already outside brushing snow off windshields, stamping their feet and muttering to themselves.
Carter watched one guy fight with an ice scraper for a second longer than necessary.
God. He couldn’t even imagine.
If he owned a car, mornings like this would be miserable, digging it out, warming it up, praying it started. The bus suddenly felt like the better deal.
At least someone else had to drive.
He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and kept moving down the sidewalk, footsteps slow and steady.
The cold made everything feel quieter inside his head too, like his thoughts were wrapped in cotton.
After a moment, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the Walkman he’d picked up a few days ago from the thrift store down the street. Old thing, a little scratched, the plastic slightly yellowed with age, but it worked.
He’d told himself it was a stupid purchase at first. Now he figured it might be useful.
Bus rides this early were always a mix of coughing strangers, loud conversations, and the occasional guy who thought everyone wanted to hear his life story.
Today, with his head already stuffed with cotton and his throat on fire, he didn’t think he could handle the noise.
Music felt easier. Simpler.
He slid the cassette in with a soft click and settled the foam headphones over his ears, the world immediately dulling at the edges.
A second of static. Then the first familiar notes started to play.
Don’t Dream It’s Over.
Soft. Warm. Gentle in a way winter mornings never were.
He let out a slow breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
For a few minutes, it was just him and the music and the steady rhythm of his steps.
No pagers.
No monitors.
No voices calling his name from across the ER.
Just the crunch of snow and the quiet hum of the song threading through his head.
By the time he reached the bus stop, his nose was numb and his fingers ached even through his gloves.
A small cluster of people stood under the shelter, bundled coats, scarves pulled up to their eyes, everyone half-asleep and keeping to themselves. Steam rose from someone’s coffee cup. Another person coughed, wet and miserable.
Carter hesitated for half a second.
Flu season. Of course.
Perfect.
He sighed, tugged his scarf a little higher over his mouth, and stepped under the shelter anyway, leaning back against the cold glass.
The bench was dusted with snow, so he stayed standing.
The song kept playing in his ears.
For a moment, watching the slow fall of snow across the empty street, he let himself drift, imagining the hospital quiet for once, imagining a day where nobody coded, nobody bled out, nobody needed him every second.
Just one slow day.
The bus headlights appeared at the end of the street, glowing faintly through the gray.
Carter straightened, already tired.
The day hadn’t even started yet.
The bus ride felt longer than it should have.
Snow clung stubbornly to the roads, the tires hissing and crunching as the driver crawled along at half-speed. Every stop took forever, doors wheezing open, people shuffling on and off in heavy coats, stamping snow from their boots. The heater rattled overhead but didn’t do much besides blow out lukewarm air that smelled faintly like dust.
Someone behind him kept coughing.
Wet. Persistent. The kind of cough you couldn’t ignore.
Carter slouched lower in his seat and turned his music up a notch.
Outside the window, Chicago slid past in slow motion, white sidewalks, half-buried cars, shop windows fogged with condensation.
Everything looked softer under the snow. Quieter.
It almost didn’t feel like a workday.
By the time the hospital finally came into view, he felt like he’d already done a full shift.
The bus lurched to a stop.
He pulled the headphones down around his neck, stood carefully, the dizziness still faintly there, like his head wasn’t screwed on all the way, and stepped off into the cold.
The air bit harder than before.
Snow crunched under his shoes as soon as he landed. The sidewalk hadn’t been fully cleared, just trampled into uneven slush by dozens of footprints. Within seconds, icy water seeped through the edges of his sneakers.
Yeah. Great. Wet socks. Perfect start.
He nudged a small pile of snow out of his way with the toe of his shoe and adjusted his bag higher on his shoulder.
He checked his watch.
A few minutes late.
Not terrible. Still annoying.
Normally he’d walk faster to make up the time, but today his body wouldn’t cooperate. Every step felt heavier than it should, like gravity had quietly increased overnight.
Halfway up the path, the cold air scraped down his throat and dragged a cough out of him.
It hurt.
Sharp and raw, like sandpaper.
He pressed his sleeve to his mouth and waited for it to pass, blinking against the sudden sting in his eyes.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he muttered to himself hoarsely, voice barely more than a rasp.
He forced himself the rest of the way.
The automatic doors slid open with their familiar mechanical sigh.
Warm air rushed over him instantly, sterile, overheated hospital air that smelled faintly of disinfectant and bad coffee.
It shouldn’t have been comforting.
But it was.
For a second, he just stood there, letting the warmth thaw his fingers.
The lobby was quieter than usual for this time of morning. A couple of patients scattered in chairs. A nurse at the front desk flipping through charts. Phones ringing somewhere deeper inside.
Winter usually meant accidents. Slips, crashes, broken bones.
But it was still early.
Give it an hour, he thought. It’ll get bad.
“Hey.”
Carter looked up.
Mark Greene was coming down the hall with two paper cups of coffee, glasses sliding down his nose like always, tie slightly crooked. He looked tired in that permanent-attending way, but warm. Awake. Solid.
Mark slowed when he got closer, eyes scanning Carter’s face for half a second too long.
“You look like you had a long journey," he said lightly, offering one of the coffees.
Carter huffed a quiet laugh. “Bus.”
“Ah.” Mark nodded like that explained everything. “Yeah, roads are a mess. Took me twice as long to get in.” He tilted his head. “You survive the trek, or did you suffer for the cause?”
“Little of both,” Carter said, voice rough.
Mark’s expression shifted immediately.
Concern. Subtle, but there.
“You sound awful,” he said. Not unkindly. Just factual. “You sick?”
“I’m fine,” Carter replied automatically.
Mark gave him a look over the rim of his coffee.
The classic I’ve known you too long to buy that look.
“Mm-hm,” he hummed. “Well. Try not to pass out on my floor today, okay? Paperwork’s a nightmare.”
There was a small smile there, softening it.
Carter managed one back. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Go change. You’ve got triage waiting for you in about ten.”
“Yeah.”
They split off in opposite directions.
The hallway lights felt too bright after the gray morning outside. Everything smelled like antiseptic and something fried from the cafeteria downstairs. His shoes squeaked faintly against the tile as he walked.
With every step, the tiredness crept back in.
By the time he pushed open the changing room door, his shoulders ached like he’d carried something heavy all the way here.
The room was mostly empty, a few lockers hanging open, someone’s jacket tossed over a bench.
Quiet.
He dropped his bag onto the bench and sat down for just a second longer than necessary, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
Just a minute. Just to breathe. His head throbbed softly.
From somewhere down the hall, a phone rang. Then another. Then the distant overhead page crackled to life.
The day, calling him in.
Carter sighed, dragged himself back up, and started changing.
The scrubs felt colder than usual when he pulled them on.
Hospital fabric, thin, stiff from too many industrial washes. He tugged the sleeves down and rubbed at his arms, trying to wake himself up. His reflection in the locker mirror didn’t look great.
Pale. Eyes a little glassy. Nose pink from the cold. He splashed some water on his face anyway, like that might fix it.
“Good enough,” he muttered. It would have to be.
By the time he stepped into the ER proper, the quiet from earlier had already started to unravel.
Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Someone arguing softly at the front desk.
The waiting room had filled while he’d been changing, every chair taken, a few people standing along the walls with arms crossed, tissues clutched in their hands. Coughing echoed every few seconds, overlapping, messy and constant.
Flu season.
Chuny gave him a look from the desk. “Morning, Carter. You’re on triage.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“You sound terrible.”
“Wouldn’t you if you had a shift during Christmas” he said.
“I would.” She handed him a clipboard.
“Room three’s been waiting. He’s… cranky.”
Carter nodded.
Cranky he could handle.
He could always handle cranky.
Room three’s curtain was half drawn. He pushed it aside gently.
Inside, a man in his late forties sat on the edge of the bed, jacket still on, bouncing one leg impatiently. Red nose, flushed cheeks, a crumpled tissue stuffed into his fist. A plastic grocery bag sat at his feet like he’d come straight from errands.
The second Carter stepped in, the guy looked up sharply.
“Finally,” he snapped. “I’ve been sitting here for forty minutes.”
“Sorry about the wait,” Carter said automatically, voice soft and professional.
“We’re a little backed up this morning.”
“Well, I’ve got work,” the man continued, like Carter hadn’t spoken. “I can’t just sit around all day. I told the nurse that already.”
Carter nodded, pulling the stool over and sitting down. The movement made his head swim slightly, but he kept his expression steady.
“I understand. We’ll make this quick, okay?”
The man huffed.
“So what seems to be going on today?”
“I told the other lady,” he said, irritated. “Fever. Cough. Headache. Whole body aches. Probably the flu. My wife said I should come in.”
“Okay,” Carter said gently. “How long have you had the symptoms?”
“Couple days.”
“Any shortness of breath? Chest pain?”
“No. Just feel like crap.” A pause. Then, pointedly: “Can you just give me something and let me go?”
Carter gave a small, tired smile. “I’ll see what we can do.”
He started checking vitals, hands steady out of muscle memory.
Pulse.
Temperature.
Blood pressure cuff tightening with that familiar hiss.
The man kept talking the entire time.
About the wait. About parking prices. About how hospitals were always slow. About how he “never gets sick” and this was “ridiculous.”
Each word felt like it landed directly behind Carter’s eyes.
Too loud.
Too close.
His own throat burned every time he swallowed.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
“You doctors always overcomplicate things,” the man muttered. “It’s just a cold.”
Carter forced another small smile.
“Sometimes,” he said quietly. “But we like to be careful.”
He stood a little too fast when he finished.
The room tilted.
Just for a second.
His hand shot out to steady himself against the counter before the patient could notice.
He waited.
Breathed.
One, two, three.
The dizziness passed like a wave pulling back.
“You okay?” the man asked, suspicious now.
“Yeah,” Carter said, clearing his throat. “Long morning.”
He grabbed the chart and headed for the curtain.
Even though his bones felt like they were filled with sand.
Outside the curtain, the noise of the ER folded back around him like it had been waiting.
Phones rang somewhere behind the desk. A monitor alarm chirped and then stopped. Someone laughed too loudly down the hall, the sound brittle with exhaustion. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and burnt coffee, that stale hospital combination that never really left your clothes even after you went home.
Carter handed the chart off to Chuny and rubbed a hand over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes for a second longer than necessary.
“You good?” she asked without looking up.
“Yeah,” he said, already turning away.
Another chart landed in his hand almost immediately.
Room five.
Possible dehydration. Elderly. Dizzy spells.
He nodded to himself and started walking.
His legs felt heavier now, like the short bus ride and the cold walk had finally caught up with him all at once. There was a dull ache settling into his lower back, the kind that came from too many hours on his feet. His throat scratched every time he breathed in too deeply, and he could feel that slow, familiar pressure building behind his temples again.
Not enough to stop him.
Just enough to make everything slightly harder.
The hallway lights seemed too bright. The white tile floors too reflective. Everything looked sharper than it should, edges a little too defined, like his brain was working overtime just to process it.
He adjusted his grip on the clipboard and turned into the next room without really looking.
And promptly walked his shin straight into the metal leg of an empty chair.
The impact was sudden and solid.
A blunt, ringing thunk that shot straight up his leg.
Pain bloomed instantly, hot and bright.
For a second he just froze there, teeth clenched, breath sucked in through his nose.
“God—” he muttered under it, barely audible.
It wasn’t even that hard, just perfectly placed. Right against bone.
The kind of hit that made your eyes water out of pure reflex.
He stood there for a moment longer than he should have, one hand braced on the edge of the counter, waiting for the sting to dull. His pant leg brushed against the sore spot and sent another sharp pulse up his knee
Somewhere behind him, a nurse pushed a cart past, wheels rattling loudly.
Nobody noticed.
After a few seconds, he straightened like nothing had happened, rolling his shoulders back, forcing the limp out of his step before he took another one.
It was stupid to be annoyed about it.
People came in with broken bones and collapsed lungs and bleeding wounds, and here he was getting taken out by furniture.
He almost laughed at himself.
“Get it together,” he murmured.
He nudged the chair out of the way with his foot and finally stepped into the room.
The patient inside was an older woman wrapped in two sweaters and a winter coat, gray hair pinned back loosely, hands trembling slightly where they rested in her lap. She looked small against the hospital bed, eyes tired but alert.
When she saw him, she gave him a weak smile.
“Oh good,” she said softly. “Another young one. I was starting to think they’d forgotten about me.”
Her voice wasn’t sharp like the last guy’s. Just worn down. Apologetic, almost.
Something in Carter’s chest loosened a little.
“I don’t think we forget anybody,” he said gently, pulling the stool closer. “Sorry you had to wait.”
He sat, and this time he lowered himself carefully, more aware of his leg.
Up close, he could see how pale she looked. Dry lips. Skin papery thin. The kind of patient who probably hadn’t been drinking enough water and didn’t want to bother anyone.
He recognized the type instantly.
“My name’s Dr. Carter,” he said, softer now. “Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?”
As she talked, slow and rambling, he listened.
Really listened.
Nodded. Asked questions. Took notes in that messy handwriting of his.
But every so often, the room seemed to sway just slightly, like he was on a boat instead of solid ground.
His head felt too warm.
His hands a little unsteady.
He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to stay sharp, trying to focus on her voice instead of the way his body kept quietly protesting.
Across the hall, someone called his name.
A monitor beeped again.
The day kept moving, relentless and ordinary.
And Carter stayed right where he was, smiling gently at a stranger, pretending he didn’t feel like he was coming apart at the seams.
When he finally finished and stepped back from the patient, he let himself exhale, long and quiet, feeling the dull ache in his leg and the tight pull behind his temples. It had been a small victory, but small victories sometimes felt heavier than anything else in the ER. He pushed the curtain back and made his way down the hall, each step deliberate, trying not to think about the way the pain lingered or how weak he suddenly felt.
The break room was warm, the harsh fluorescent lights softened by the smell of burnt coffee and disinfectant lingering in the air. A few of the doctors were already gathered around the small table. Greene leaned against the counter, oversized coffee cup in hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he read a chart.
Benton was perched on a chair, one leg crossed over the other, eyes narrowing at Carter’s slight limp even before he spoke.
“What happened to your leg?” Benton asked, voice calm but curious, attentive in the way he always was when he suspected someone wasn’t being entirely honest.
Carter shifted uncomfortably, lowering himself onto the chair across from Benton. His leg throbbed faintly every time he moved. “I accidentally hit it,” he admitted softly, forcing a small shrug. “Chair leg. Bad timing.”
Mark gave him a glance over the rim of his cup, eyebrows raised slightly, but didn’t comment, content to sip his coffee in silence, letting the tension linger a beat longer than necessary. The quiet was only broken by the low hum of the vending machine and a faint beep somewhere down the hall.
Benton leaned forward slightly. “Do you need a minute to sit? Maybe a bandage or ice?”
Carter shook his head quickly. “No, it’s fine. Really.”
His voice rasped more than he wanted it to. Already he felt a little dizzy just sitting there, warmth flooding his face, limbs suddenly heavier. He pressed a hand to his thigh, trying to massage the dull sting into nothing, willing himself to stay upright.
A nurse’s voice called from the doorway, brisk and tense. “Dr. Carter, Dr. Greene — we need you in trauma, now. Patient came in from a car accident. Condition’s unstable.”
Carter straightened instinctively, reflexes kicking in before reason could protest. His stomach tightened, a hollow, fluttering sensation spreading through him.
His head spun just slightly, dizziness blooming in the edges of his vision. Every muscle in his body suddenly felt sluggish, uncooperative. The coffee’s warmth in Mark’s hands, the soft scrape of Benton’s chair, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, all of it pressed against him.
“Carter?” Benton’s voice was closer, sharp now, grounding him. “You okay?”
Carter swallowed. His throat felt raw. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he muttered, though the words sounded brittle even to his own ears. He braced his hands against the table, trying to steady himself, willing the weakness to fade. The dizziness lingered, persistent, like a tide he couldn’t fight. He could still walk. He could still function. Somehow he always did.
Mark’s gaze lingered, calm and assessing, the kind of quiet presence that reminded Carter he wasn’t alone in this. The room smelled of coffee and antiseptic and faint snow melting off coats at the door, grounding him in the present, keeping the vertigo from taking over.
Carter rose, leaning on the edge of the table for just a moment longer, drawing a slow, measured breath. He could do this. He always did. He would manage.
But as they moved down the hall toward the trauma bay, the chill of the snow outside still clinging faintly to his scrubs, he couldn’t stop the thought that had crept into his mind for the first time all morning: maybe coming in today wasn’t such a good idea after all.
But Carter hated the idea of being home alone.
All of them reached the trauma room at the same time.
The sliding doors hissed shut behind them, muffling the muffled chaos of the rest of the ER. Inside, the man lay motionless on the gurney, a pale, drawn face half-hidden in sweat and blood, eyes barely open. The steady rhythm of the monitor was gone, replaced by a shallow, irregular beep that made Carter’s chest tighten.
Blood seeped through a jagged wound in the patient’s abdomen, bright against the white sheets, and pooled slowly beneath him. The smell of iron hung thick in the air, sharp and metallic, cutting through the faint antiseptic.
Nurses rushed past with trays of instruments and fluid bags, voices clipped and urgent. Carter’s stomach lurched slightly, not from the sight, but from the cold drain of his own fatigue pressing against him.
“No response to commands,” one of the nurses said, crouching beside the man and gently shaking his shoulder.
Carter bent over the side of the gurney, hands steady at first. He could feel the familiar pulse of adrenaline waking the sharp edge of his reflexes. Just another patient. Trauma, routine, protocol. He knew every step. Every move. He could do this.
“Pulse dropping,” another voice said, scanning the monitor. Carter glanced, the numbers had already fallen lower than they should be. Blood pressure dipping. His throat constricted slightly.
“He’s lost too much blood,” Greene muttered, moving to help stabilize the patient while barking a quick sequence of orders.
Carter nodded and reached for the IV line, sterilized kit in hand. He could do this. He had done this a thousand times.
Except when he went to insert the needle, his fingers betrayed him.
They trembled. Just a little at first. Then more.
His knuckles white, shaking against the plastic of the tubing. The IV dripped past him, waiting. Carter’s pulse jumped in sync with the monitor, and his head felt suddenly too warm.
He forced his jaw tight, trying to steady his hands. He could do this. He had to.
“Carter” Greene’s voice was calm but firm, close enough for him to hear without turning. “You okay?”
Carter swallowed, throat raw. “Yeah,” he rasped, though the word sounded hollow to his own ears.
He clenched his free hand into a fist at his side, knuckles pressing painfully into his palm. The tremor didn’t stop. He could feel his legs weaken slightly as he leaned over the patient. His mind told him, You’re fine. You’ve got this.
But his hands refused to cooperate.
Greene’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer.
“Carter, come on.”
The nurse beside him held the patient steady.
Carter could feel the weight of the moment pressing down, the man’s shallow breathing, the crimson spreading slowly across the sheets, the beep of the monitor dropping another notch.
Carter’s vision swam faintly at the edges.
He gritted his teeth, trying to force the line into the vein again. Just a little steadier, he thought.
He had to get it. He could do this.
Another tremor. His hand wobbled.
“Carter,” Greene said again, sharper this time, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder. The weight was grounding, steadying. “Give it to me.”
Carter’s jaw clenched, and he let himself inhale slowly. The room felt heavier than it should. The lights too bright, the smell too sharp, the blood too red. His limbs felt like they were filled with lead, every muscle protesting.
Without hesitation, Carter handed him the line.
Mark in a second had it hooked into the vein.
The patient’s monitor beeped steadier now. Not fixed, but stable enough for the moment.
Carter’s hands shook slightly as he stepped back, trying to ignore the weakness crawling up from his core.
Carter stepped back from the gurney, letting out a quiet breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The IV line was in place, the fluids running, the patient slightly more stable. For a moment, he thought he could finally leave the room.
Then the world tilted.
Not suddenly, but like the room itself had subtly shifted. The lights above seemed too bright, the beeping of the monitor too sharp. Every sound in the room, the squeak of a wheel, a distant cough, the rustle of gloves, layered on top of each other until it was almost painful. His legs felt hollow, like they weren’t really connected to the rest of him. His stomach knotted, warmth flooding his face, a faint buzzing echoing in his ears.
Carter gritted his teeth and pressed a hand to the counter, willing himself upright. He could do this.
Just one more step.
“Carter?” Greene’s voice was closer now, calm but firm, cutting through the haze.
He blinked. The edges of his vision were gray, a subtle tunnel forming around the center. He tried to answer, tried to say he was fine, but the words caught in his throat.
He swayed, one hand gripping the counter for balance, the other still trembling slightly from the IV. The world tilted again, sharper this time, and Carter realized he couldn’t fight it.
Not anymore.
“Sit down!” Greene barked, voice low but urgent.
Before Carter could protest, his knees gave way, and he collapsed into the nearest chair, slumping forward just enough that Greene could reach him.
A nurse was already at his side, steadying him, guiding his trembling arms.
“Breathe, Carter,” Greene said, one hand on his shoulder, the other pressing gently against his back. “You’re okay. Just sit. That’s all.”
Carter tried to nod, but his head was heavy, his muscles refusing to respond properly. He leaned back, letting the chair hold his weight, feeling more exposed than he had in years of trauma cases. The room was still, aside from the faint hum of the monitors and the patient’s shallow breathing, and for a second, he allowed himself to feel it all: the sickness, the exhaustion, the relentless pressure of the morning.
Greene didn’t lecture. He didn’t scold. He simply stayed there, steady and present, his coffee forgotten on the counter, eyes scanning the room for anything urgent while keeping one hand firmly on Carter.
“You with me?” Greene asked quietly.
Carter nodded once. The movement felt heavier than it should have. “Yeah,” he managed, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “Just… stood up too fast.”
Greene gave him a look that clearly said he didn’t buy it, but he didn’t argue. Not here. Not now.
“Sit a minute,” he said instead. “We’ve got this.”
Carter hated that sentence.
We’ve got this.
Like he wasn’t part of it. Like he was the weak link.
Still, he didn’t fight him.
For once, he didn’t have the energy to.
Across the room, the team kept moving around the patient with quiet efficiency. Gloves snapping. Gauze tearing. Someone calling out numbers. Life going on without him like it always did.
The world didn’t fall apart just because he stepped back.
That realization settled strangely in his chest.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor tiles for a second. They looked too bright. Too clean.
His skin felt hot.
Not just warm from stress — hot. Like heat was radiating outward from under his scrubs.
He swallowed.
His throat burned.
Slowly, almost absentmindedly, he lifted a hand and pressed the back of it to his forehead.
Then to his cheek.
His skin was flushed.
Too warm. The kind of warmth that didn’t come from the room.
He frowned slightly and tried again, more deliberately this time, palm flat against his forehead.
Yeah.
There it was. That unmistakable, heavy heat.
The kind you only noticed when you finally stopped moving.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath.
It made sense now — the dizziness, the shaking hands, the way the lights had felt too sharp, too loud. His body hadn’t been dramatic. It had just been… done.
He had a fever.
Not “a little cold” like he’d told himself this morning.
Not “fine.”
Actually sick.
For a second, an irrational wave of frustration washed over him. Like his body had betrayed him at the worst possible time.
Of course it would be today. Of course it would be flu season. Of course it would be when they were already short-staffed.
Greene noticed the movement and glanced over. “You running hot?”
Carter let out a tired huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Think so.”
Greene studied him for a second longer, eyes softening in that tired, dad-like way he had sometimes.
“That’s what happens when you drag yourself to work half-dead,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re human, Carter. Hate to break it to you.”
Carter stared down at his hands, still faintly pink from the cold outside, from the IV line, from everything.
Human.
Right.
He exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Give me five minutes,” he said. “Then I’m good.”
Greene didn’t look convinced.
But he nodded anyway.
“Five,” he said. “Then we talk.”
Carter leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes just for a second, letting the noise of the trauma room blur together around him.
Greene watched him for another second, like he was debating something.
Carter could practically see the thought forming behind his eyes — You look awful. Go home.
Before he could say it, a nurse leaned into the doorway.
“Dr. Greene, we need you back in there. Pressure’s dropping again.”
Greene swore under his breath, already moving.
He pointed a finger at Carter as he passed.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
It wasn’t sharp. Just firm. Familiar. The kind of order you didn’t argue with.
Carter nodded automatically. “Yeah.”
Greene disappeared back into the swarm of movement and noise, swallowed by the trauma bay.
For a few seconds Carter stayed exactly where he was, listening to the sounds pick back up, voices overlapping, metal trays clattering, someone calling out vitals.
The chair felt too warm now.
His skin still burned.
If Greene came back in five minutes and looked at him again, really looked at him, that would be it. Sent home. No discussion. Maybe even a lecture.
The idea of going back to that apartment, dark and silent and empty, made something twist in his chest.
Four walls. No voices. Nothing to focus on except how sick he felt.
No thanks.
He pushed himself to his feet slowly, carefully, waiting for the dizziness to hit.
It didn’t. Not yet.
Good enough.
“I’ll just—” he muttered to no one, already stepping toward the hallway.
Just a quick walk. Water. Air. Something.
He told himself he wasn’t technically disobeying. Greene hadn’t said stay in this exact chair. He just needed a minute.
The corridor outside trauma was quieter, the noise fading with every step. The harsh fluorescent lights hummed overhead. His shoes squeaked faintly against the tile.
He passed a couple of empty gurneys parked against the wall, a supply cart, a nurse rushing the opposite direction with an armful of blankets.
The hospital felt different back here. Less urgent. Like the space between breaths.
He headed toward the stairwell first, thinking maybe he’d just sit on the steps for a minute, somewhere nobody would think to look. Somewhere cool.
The fever made the air feel thick in his lungs.
But before he reached it, he noticed someone sitting on the floor near the vending machines down the hall.
A kid.
Maybe eight or nine.
Curly hair sticking out from under a too-big knit hat. Hospital bracelet sliding around his thin wrist. One leg wrapped in a bright blue cast that looked freshly signed with marker.
He had a pile of plastic dinosaurs spread out on the tile, carefully lining them up in rows like soldiers.
Carter slowed without meaning to.
The kid moved one, frowned, then moved it back, completely absorbed in whatever battle he was staging.
For a second, Carter just watched.
It was oddly peaceful. No monitors. No shouting. Just the soft clack of plastic against tile.
The kid glanced up and caught him staring.
They held eye contact for a beat.
Then the kid squinted and pointed. “Are you a doctor?”
Carter blinked, then looked down at his scrubs like he’d forgotten what he was wearing.
“Yeah,” he said, voice still hoarse. “Guilty.”
The kid studied him seriously. “You look worse than me.”
Carter huffed out a surprised laugh that immediately turned into a cough. “Thanks. That’s… really encouraging.”
The kid shrugged and scooted one of the dinosaurs over. “You wanna help? The T-rex keeps falling over.”
It was said so casually. Like it was obvious Carter would sit.
Carter hesitated for half a second.
He should go back. Back to where?
Instead, he slid down the wall slowly until he was sitting on the floor across from the kid, back against the cool tile. The chill seeped through his scrubs and felt ridiculously good against his overheated skin.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “But the T-rex is notoriously unstable. Bad center of gravity.”
The kid snorted. “No it’s not. You just gotta balance it right.”
They worked in silence for a minute, repositioning dinosaurs like it was serious business.
Carter’s hands had finally stopped shaking.
The hallway air felt cooler here.
His head didn’t spin as much.
“What happened?” Carter asked gently, nodding at the cast.
“Fell off my bike,” the kid said. “Mom says I’m grounded for life.”
“Sounds about right.”
“You fix people like this all day?” the kid asked.
“Something like that.”
The kid looked at him again, squinting. “Then who fixes you?”
The question landed softer than it should have.
Carter smiled, but it felt tired around the edges.
“Still working on that one,” he said.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Just dinosaurs. Quiet hallway. The distant echo of the ER carrying on without him.
And for the first time all morning, Carter didn’t feel like he had to hold himself together quite so tightly.
He just sat there on the cold floor, feverish and exhausted, helping a kid balance a plastic T-rex like it was the most important job in the world.The T-rex finally stayed upright.
The kid leaned back with a satisfied nod, like they’d just accomplished something monumental, then nudged one of the smaller dinosaurs into place with careful fingers. His tongue stuck out slightly in concentration.
Carter watched him work, half-focused, half-drifting.
The tile against his back felt cool and steady, pulling some of the heat from his skin. His head still felt heavy, but in a dull, manageable way now. The noise of the ER barely reached this far down the hall, just a distant murmur, like waves somewhere far off.
It was strange how a hospital could have pockets of quiet like this.
Like the building forgot itself for a minute.
“You here by yourself?” Carter asked after a while.
The kid shrugged. “Mom’s doing paperwork. She said not to move but it’s boring in the room.”
“Yeah,” Carter said softly. “Hospitals are good at boring.”
Another dinosaur scraped lightly across the floor.
“My surgery’s tomorrow,” the kid added, casual, like he was talking about school or something.
“They said I gotta stay overnight.”
Carter glanced at him. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Christmas Eve.” He paused. “And Christmas.”
Something about the way he said it, trying to sound like it didn’t matter, made Carter’s chest tighten.
“Oh,” Carter said gently. “I’m sorry.”
The kid shrugged again, but smaller this time.
“It’s fine. I guess. Mom said we can have Christmas later. Like… a do-over.” He picked at the edge of his cast. “But it’s not the same, you know?”
Carter nodded.
Yeah.
He knew.
“They were gonna put lights on the house this year,” the kid continued. “And my uncle was coming over. And my cousin got me this game we were gonna play together.” He kicked lightly at the floor. “Now everyone’s just gonna be here instead.”
The hallway felt a little colder.
Carter stared at the row of plastic dinosaurs, lined up like they were waiting for something.
“I get it,” he said quietly.
The kid looked up at him. “You do?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t usually talk about himself to patients. Especially not kids. But something about this didn’t feel like that. It just felt like two people sitting on a floor, killing time.
“I’m here tomorrow too,” Carter said. “Working.”
“On Christmas?” the kid frowned. “That sucks.”
Carter smiled faintly. “Yeah. Kinda does.”
“You don’t get to go home?”
He thought about it.
About the apartment. The silence. The dark windows. The way the heat clicked on and off with no one else there. Microwave dinners. TV for background noise.
Then he thought about the ER. The chaos. The lights. The voices. People needing him.
“I could,” he said finally. “I just… didn’t really feel like it.”
The kid tilted his head. “Cause it’s boring?”
“Something like that.”
For a second neither of them spoke.
Then the kid nudged the T-rex toward Carter.
“You can borrow him tomorrow,” he said seriously. “So you’re not bored.”
Carter blinked.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He’s good at guarding stuff.”
A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it, rough and tired but real. “I appreciate that. Might need the backup.”
They sat there in a quiet truce after that, shoulder to wall, dinosaurs between them, the hospital humming softly around them.
Carter realized his breathing had slowed. His hands weren’t shaking anymore.
For the first time all morning, the ache in his chest didn’t feel quite so sharp.
The kid leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. “Hospitals are lame.”
“Yeah,” Carter agreed.
“But…” the kid added, glancing at him, “you’re not that bad.”
Carter smiled down at the plastic T-rex in his hand.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “You’re not either.”
The pager’s echo hadn’t even fully faded when footsteps sounded at the end of the hallway.
Quick. Familiar. Purposeful.
Carter didn’t look up at first. He was busy helping the kid wedge the T-rex’s tail against the wall so it would stop tipping backward
“There,” he murmured. “Structural support.”
“Told you,” the kid said proudly.
“Carter.”
His name cut cleanly through the quiet.
Not sharp. Just knowing.
He glanced up.
Greene stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, coat half-buttoned, hair a little more disheveled than usual like he’d been running it through his hands. There was dried blood on one sleeve he clearly hadn’t noticed yet.
For a second he didn’t say anything.
He just took in the scene.
Carter on the floor. Back against the wall. Plastic dinosaurs scattered everywhere. A kid in a cast grinning up at him like they were old friends.
Greene’s expression shifted, confusion, then surprise, then something softer.
“…What are you doing?” he asked.
Carter lifted one shoulder. “Consult.”
The kid pointed at the dinosaurs. “He’s helping me set up defenses.”
Greene huffed out a quiet laugh through his nose despite himself. “Is that so?”
His gaze moved to the kid’s cast, then the hospital bracelet.
“Hey, buddy,” Greene said gently, crouching down a little. “What room are you in?”
“312,” the kid said.
“And did your mom or nurse say you could go exploring the wilderness of the ER?”
The kid grimaced. “…Maybe.”
“Mm-hm. That’s what I thought.”
Greene’s voice wasn’t scolding, exactly. Just that calm, parental tone Carter had heard him use a hundred times before.
“Hallways aren’t the safest place to hang out, okay? Too many gurneys flying around. Don’t want you getting run over.”
The kid looked reluctantly at Carter. “Do I gotta go back?”
“Afraid so,” Greene said. “But I’ll make sure someone brings you better snacks than whatever they gave you earlier. Deal?”
The kid perked up. “Chocolate pudding?”
“I’ll see what strings I can pull.”
That seemed to settle it.
Slowly, the kid started scooping the dinosaurs into his hat to carry them. Before he left, he held the T-rex out to Carter.
“Guard duty,” he reminded him.
Carter blinked. “You sure?”
“Yeah. Bring him back tomorrow.”
“I will.”
Greene gently guided the kid down the hall, one careful hand hovering near his shoulder without quite touching, the way you do with someone small and breakable.
Carter watched them go.
The hallway felt a little emptier without the quiet chatter.
After a minute, Greene came back alone.
He didn’t sit this time.
He just leaned against the wall across from Carter, arms folded, studying him in that way that made Carter feel like an x-ray had just been taken.
“So,” Greene said slowly, “this is what you meant by ‘don’t go anywhere’?”
Carter tilted his head back against the tile. “I didn’t go far.”
“You vanished.”
“I was… nearby.”
Greene sighed, but there wasn’t any real heat in it. His eyes dropped to Carter’s flushed cheeks, the way he was slumped instead of sitting straight, the faint shine of sweat at his hairline.
“You look terrible,” Greene said bluntly.
“Wow. Thanks.”
“I’m serious, Carter.”
“I know.”
The joking edge faded a little.
Greene stepped closer and, without asking, pressed the back of his hand to Carter’s forehead.
It was quick. Instinctive.
Carter didn’t even flinch. Greene frowned immediately.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re burning up.”
Carter stared at the ceiling tiles. “Yeah. Figured that out.”
“And you thought wandering the hospital with a fever was a good plan?”
“I thought sitting still would make you send me home.”
There it was. Honest, quiet coming out of his mouth.
Greene paused.
“…You really hate the idea of going home that much?”
He traced the scratches in the tile with his eyes.
“It’s just easier here,” he said finally. “There’s stuff to do.”
Greene looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Not pity. Something gentler than that.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I get that.”
Then, after a beat:
“But you’re still sick, Carter.”
Greene didn’t argue with him for long.
Once he saw Carter sway a little just trying to stand, the decision was made for him.
There was no lecture, no sharp tone. Just that steady, immovable firmness Greene slipped into when something actually mattered.
He steered Carter down the hall with a hand at his back like he might with a stubborn patient, not a colleague.
Occupational health was quiet this time of day. Too bright, too clean, smelling faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. Carter sat on the edge of the exam table while a nurse took his temperature and blood pressure, clipped a pulse ox to his finger, asked the usual questions he’d asked a hundred patients himself.
It felt strange being on this side of it.
Embarrassing, a little.
“Low-grade fever,” someone said. “Flu’s going around.”
Of course it was.
They pressed a paper cup of water into his hand and a couple of pills, something for the fever, something for the headache that had settled behind his eyes. He swallowed them without protest, too tired to pretend he didn’t need them.
Greene disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a cup of vending machine soup that was more salt than anything else, and a sleeve of crackers.
“Eat,” he said simply.
Carter didn’t argue with that either.
The soup was too hot and tasted vaguely like chicken if he tried hard enough, but it warmed him from the inside out. Some of the chill under his skin finally eased. The pounding in his head softened to something manageable.
Greene stayed nearby, pretending to read a chart while obviously keeping an eye on him.
Like a parent making sure their kid actually finishes their medicine.
It should’ve annoyed him.
Instead, it just made him feel… looked after.
Which was worse, somehow.
By the time the pills kicked in, the world didn’t feel quite so sharp anymore. The lights stopped stabbing at his eyes. His limbs felt heavy, but in a normal, end-of-shift way instead of the floating, feverish kind.
Greene put him on lighter duty after that. Paperwork. Phone calls. Nothing that required steady hands.
Carter didn’t fight him.
For once, he let himself slow down.
The next morning, the fever had mostly broken.
Not gone completely, but dulled to a faint warmth instead of a blaze. His throat still hurt, and his voice sounded wrecked, but he could stand without the room tilting, which felt like a victory.
Snow had fallen again overnight, soft and clean, covering the sidewalks like nothing messy had ever existed there.
The hospital was already humming when he walked in.
Christmas Eve.
Quieter in some ways. Stranger in others.
He stopped by pediatrics before clocking in.
Room 312.
The kid was awake, propped up in bed with his cast elevated, surrounded by coloring books and a lopsided paper snowflake taped to the wall.
He looked up when Carter knocked lightly on the doorframe.
“You came back,” the kid said, like he hadn’t been entirely sure he would.
“Told you I would.”
Carter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the plastic T-rex, setting it carefully on the bedside table.
“Guard duty complete,” he said.
The kid grinned and immediately grabbed it, making it stomp across the blanket. “Told you
he was good.”
“Best I’ve got.”
They talked for a minute or two, nothing important, just small things, before a nurse came in to fuss over vitals and shoo Carter out.
As he stepped back into the hallway, the familiar noise of the ER drifting toward him, he realized he didn’t feel quite as heavy as he had the day before.
Still tired. Still a little sick.
But not alone.
And somehow, that made the shift ahead feel a little easier to walk into.