Melody
A 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift has its own rhythm—less frantic than trauma, but heavier in a way that seeps into your bones.
The night passed in controlled waves. A septic workup that stabilized after antibiotics. An elderly man with chest pain that turned out to be fear more than pathology. A broken wrist from a fall that needed setting and reassurance more than anything else. Charting. Reassessing. Walking the halls while the world slept and trusting muscle memory to carry me when my mind threatened to drift.
Nothing catastrophic. Nothing cinematic.
Just medicine doing what it does best when given space to breathe—keeping people steady until morning.
And through it all, there was a quiet hum under my skin. Not anxiety. Not dread.
Anticipation.
By the time the sun crept through th
