Page 1 of Jaxon

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The shrill ring of her alarm shattered Rachel’s restless sleep. She groaned, slapping a hand on the nightstand until she found the alarm clock and silenced it.

Another day, another dollar. The familiar mantra ran through her head as she dragged herself out of bed and into the shower.

Rachel let the hot water cascade over her body, wishing for a moment she could melt into the tiles. Eight years had passed since the car crash that took her mother’s life, but the scars remained. Not on her body—those had long since faded. But in her mind, the memories were carved into her psyche as permanently as letters chiseled into stone.

She shook off the thoughts and finished washing up. As a nurse, she took her responsibilities seriously. Lives depended on her ability to compartmentalize.

But in the lonely hours of the night, the walls came tumbling down. She longed for connection, for intimacy—but that required trust. And trust led to pain.

Rachel sighed, fastening her watch and grabbing her bag. Time to put on her mask again. If she focused on her routine, on the predictability of each day, maybe the ache inside would fade.

Maybe, but she doubted it. Some wounds ran too deep to heal. Her relationship with her father was proof of that. The survivor’s guilt had torn them apart, and the chasm between them now seemed unbridgeable.

So she clung to order and control whenever she could, her defense against the chaos of the world. It was the only way she knew to keep the demons at bay. Rachel steeled her shoulders and walked out the front door of her apartment into the morning sun.

Another day. She’d get through it like all the rest. But she couldn’t escape the truth: she was lonely, and it was a loneliness born of tragedy she couldn’t seem to move past.

The sterile scent of antiseptic wafted through the air as Rachel Lewis walked into Baytown Medical Center for her shift. She breathed in the familiar, comforting smell and her muscles relaxed. Here, in the controlled chaos of the emergency room, she knew what to expect. There were procedures for almost every situation, a routine that gave her life order and purpose.

Rachel smiled at the charge nurse and grabbed a chart to review the incoming patients. “We’ve got a suspected heart attack in bed 3 and a bad MVA in bed 7,” the nurse said.

Rachel nodded, her hands already snapping on a pair of gloves. She strode into bed 3, her eyes quickly taking in the details. A middle-aged man clutching his chest, pale skin, rapid pulse.

“I’m Nurse Lewis,” she said in a calm, reassuring tone. “What’s your name, sir?”

She listened to his heart, noting the irregular rhythm, and barked out orders to the interns scurrying around the room.

A crash cart was wheeled in, EKG leads were attached, IVs were started. Rachel’s hands moved swiftly and confidently, following the familiar motions she had done a thousand times before.

Another life saved.

As the man was wheeled off to surgery, Rachel let out a breath and wiped the sweat off her brow.

Why did she feel so unfulfilled? She loved being a nurse, loved helping people, but lately, an emptiness started growing inside her. A longing for something more.

“Rachel, the MVA victim in Bed 7 needs you,” the charge nurse said, jolting her out of her thoughts.

Rachel shook off her doubts and misgivings, squaring her shoulders to face the controlled chaos of the emergency room once more. This was her life, these walls, this routine. She had chosen safety and security over the unknown, and she couldn’t complain.

Or could she?

Rachel trudged up the stairs to her second-floor apartment, exhaustion seeping into her bones. She fumbled with the keys before unlocking the door and stepping inside the familiar space.

Everything was in its proper place, meticulously cleaned and organized. The living room held a plush couch, a TV, and a bookshelf filled with medical journals and mystery novels. The kitchen gleamed, empty counters bare of clutter or knickknacks.

She microwaved a frozen dinner and curled up on the couch, flipping through the TV channels until she found an old episode of Law & Order to watch.

As the familiar theme song played, Rachel’s mind drifted to that day so many years ago. The gun pointed at her head, rough hands grabbing at her arms, the raspy voice of the robber demanding money. She had given him everything in the cash register, hands shaking in terror.

Afterward, she had vowed to never be vulnerable and out of control like that again. To surround herself with safety and predictability. But was it enough?

She looked around the spotless room, a pristine cage of her own making, and felt the first stirrings of discontent. When had this life of rigid routine become a prison?

Rachel turned up the TV volume, trying to drown out the unwelcome thoughts swirling in her head. But they persisted, whispering of adventure and risk, of life on the edge.

A life she had sworn off long ago, yet now found herself craving.

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