Vice president mode. I watch his shoulders square in the rearview mirror.
Willowridge General at 6 a.m. is a different animal than the clubhouse. Less smoke, more disinfectant. Less shouting, more beeping. Different kind of chaos.
"Turner, you're on Bay Two, Four, and Trauma One," Lisa, the charge nurse, calls as I clock in. "We've got two post-ops and a fall risk coming up from the ER, plus whatever the universe decides to throw at us."
"Love that for us," I say, tucking my badge into my pocket.
Lisa smirks. "Doctor Tan already asked if you're on today. Try not to break his heart when you tell him you're married to a man with a motorcycle and a death wish."
"I'll be gentle," I promise.
She snorts. "No, you won't."
My first patient is Mrs. Jenkins, eighty-three, two days post-hip replacement and already trying to negotiate her way out of the hospital like she's brokering a hostage exchange.
"I have a cat," she informs me sternly as I check her vitals. "He's emotionally fragile."
"So are you. You move that leg wrong and your surgeon's going to hunt me down in the parking lot."
She huffs but lets me reposition her pillows, fingers curling around my wrist for balance. Her grip is surprisingly strong.
"You're a good girl," she says, studying my face. "But you look tired."
"You just threatened to escape, and you're worried about my sleep schedule?"
"Somebody has to be," she mutters, but her eyes are kind.
I move through the morning in familiar rhythms. Assessment, charting, meds. It's a controlled dance of hands and voices and machines.
I like the structure. The protocols and the way there's always a next step laid out. Even when the outcome is out of your control. The club's chaos is loud and close. The hospital lives under fluorescent lights, quieter but just as sharp.
By ten, I've stabilized a dizzy teenager who didn't eat before soccer practice, calmed an anxious middle-aged man convincedhis heartburn is a heart attack, and mediated a sibling argument over who gets to stay overnight with their post-op father.
At noon, my phone buzzes in my scrub pocket.
Knox: How's my favorite nurse?
I lean against the supply room counter, thumbs flying.
Me: Busy. Your favorite nurse just stopped your favorite Mr. Jenkins from chasing Mr. Jenkins' wife down the hall with a walker.
Knox: Tell him to chill before I revoke his bacon privileges.
Me: You can't revoke an eighty-year-old man's bacon. That's a hate crime.
Knox: Fine. I'll only revoke his hash browns. How's your back?
He means: Have you eaten? Have you sat down? Are you breathing?
Me: Good. Ate. Hydrated. No one's stabbed me yet.
Knox: Proud of you. Still hate your twelve-hour shifts.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. I tuck the phone away just as Lisa pokes her head in.
"Turner, Trauma One in ten. Construction accident. You're on intake."
"On it," I say, and the next hours dissolve into motion.