Page 16 of Obeying

I stand there for a moment. There's something else I want to say, but it won't form into words that make sense for a department head to say to his resident in a hospital hallway at three in the afternoon. So I just nod, turn, and walk away.

And the only thing on my mind as I round the corner is that something happened to Kristen Portland. Something bad enough to turn the sharpest, loudest, most unapologetically brilliant person I've ever known into someone who checks compliments for traps.

And I need to know what it was.

6

KRISTEN

My body is shaking.

My back is against the wall and I can't move. He's standing right in front of me, so close I can see the vein in his neck pulsing. This man who once looked at me like I was his whole world is looking at me now with something I don't have a name for. It's not anger—that burns out. This is colder than that. This is ownership that's been challenged, and it's the most dangerous version of him I've ever seen.

"So this is what you're going to do, huh?" His voice is low and controlled, which is so much worse, because yelling means he's lost control, but controlled means he's choosing this. "Because I won't let you leave, you're going to make cold food? You're going to disrespect me in my own house?"

He pulls his fist back, and I brace for the pain. Every muscle in my body locks up, my eyes squeeze shut, and my breath is hot in my chest.

The pain doesn't come.

The punch lands next to my head. The door cracks. Splinters and wood dust rain down on my shoulder, into my hair, and the sound is so loud it swallows every other sound in the room.

I scream.

And my eyes open.

I'm in bed. My bed. My room. The ceiling is dark and familiar, the curtain half-open, the phone on my nightstand glowing with a random notification.

Another nightmare. Or more like a memory that has become my nightmare. My body knows the difference between the two, because nightmares fade when you open your eyes; memories just get sharper.

I don't sit up. I just lie there, one hand pressed to my chest, feeling my heart race under my palm. I focus on my breathing. Slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

"I'm fine," I whisper to the dark. "I'm okay. I'm safe."

I say it again and again, until the words start to feel less like a lie and more like something I might believe by the time I get out of bed.

The phone says 4:53, so I give up on sleep and get up.

I shower until the water goes lukewarm because the heat helps loosen the tension that's knotted itself between my shoulders. I dress, make coffee, and drink it moving around the kitchen because staying still feels wrong this morning. I go through the motions until the motions start to feel normal again, until my hands are steady and my breathing is even, and the memory has been pushed back down to wherever it lives when I'm not sleeping.

By the time I leave for work, the sun is up, and I'm fine. I'm always fine. That's the deal I made with myself when I left. You get up, you go to work, you do your job, and you don't let the nights bleed into the days.

Priya is already in the lounge when I get there, two coffees in hand, which means she either had a good morning or had a terrible one and is compensating.

"You okay?" she asks, handing me one, instead. "You look tired."

"I'm fine. Just woke up early."

She studies me for a second, decides to let it go, and says, "Okay, so. Good news or bad news, depending on how you take it. Rounds with Dr. Maxwell are canceled. He's got an emergency operation, so Dr. Hills is covering."

I nod. I should be relieved. No one to interrogate me before 8:00 AM, and no stern eyes finding me in a crowd.

But I'm not relieved. A part of me wanted to be distracted by him today. Wanted to feel that familiar pull, the thing that only happens when he's asking me something and waiting for me to rise to it. After the night I had, I wanted something to push back against. Something louder than the memory still lingering in my chest.

Instead, I get Dr. Hills, who is perfectly nice and perfectly forgettable and asks the group a question about postoperative ileus management that I answer on autopilot.

I throw myself into charting, into rounding on my patients, into the steady rhythm of morning tasks that usually pulls me out of my own head. Mrs. Delgado in 401 is being discharged after her appendectomy, and I go through her aftercare instructions twice because she's nervous about going home alone. I sit with her for an extra five minutes and tell her what to watch for, what's normal, and when to come back in.

She holds my hand when I stand to leave and says, "You're so sweet, Doctor. You've really helped a lot. Thank you so much." I smile—a real one. Moments like this are why I fought so hard to be here. Why I clawed my way back into medicine after so many years. Because helping someone heal and watching them walk out the door better than when they came in makes everything else worth it.