Tyler
The fluorescent lights of the hospital had burned into my retinas for forty-eight straight hours. Two back-to-back night shifts in the ICU will do that to a man. I’d seen three patients code, held a mother’s hand while her son slipped away at 4 a.m., and charted so many vitals my wrist ached. When I finally clocked out at 11 p.m., all I wanted was fresh air, silence, and the chance to let my brain go blank.
My apartment building sits on the edge of the city where the lights start to thin out. I have a small open balcony on the sixth floor that faces another identical building across a narrow courtyard. Most nights it’s quiet. Tonight, at 2 a.m., I expected it to be dead silent.
I stepped outside in nothing but gray sweatpants, the cool night air hitting my bare chest like a balm.
