Page 70 of Under Southern Stars
For now, though, I’ll have about ninety minutes alone with the woman who just sent me that photo. And I plan to makeeverysingle oneof those minutes count.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
SOPHIA
I sip my flat white, scrolling through the overnight report on my tablet. Jack has politely cajoled me into trying one last week, and I’ve initially refused on principle—I take a certain pride in drinking coffee strong enough to make grown men cry. But I’ve finally given in, and though I’ve played it off as “eh, they’re okay,” the truth is I actually enjoy the velvety texture. Not that I’d admit that to Jack. He’d never let me hear the end of it after all my stubborn resistance.
Of course, if he punishes me for that admission in the same way he did last night, maybe I don’t mind so much.
The thought sends a flicker of heat low in my belly, a phantom ache that makes me cross my legs unconsciously. Jack is significantly bigger than I am used to. Bigger than Troy ever was, in every possible way—and I am still adjusting. In the best way.
I take another sip of coffee and try to focus on my shift report, not on the memory of him pinning my wrists to the head of my bed like I was the only thing that had ever mattered.
The break room hums with the usual shift-change energy. Day shift nurses huddle around the table and lean against counters, some still yawning, others already buzzing withcaffeine. I’ve gotten the changeover brief from the night charge nurse, and am about to go over assignments and flag any troublesome patients, but I am waiting for one more person.
Nate Crawford, who punches in at precisely 6:45 AM every single day without fail. Military punctuality that has become so reliable we practically set our watches by it.
It is now 6:55, and he is not here.
I check my phone. No messages. No calls. This is very unusual. I am about to text him when the break room door bursts open.
Nate rushes in, looking utterly harried…and he is not alone.
Tailing him, looking small and sleepy and utterly out of place, is a girl of about eleven, clutching a worn-looking backpack shaped like a cartoon cat and a well-worn paperback. Her dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she blinks owlishly against the harsh fluorescent lights.Paige, I realize with a start. I’d met her once at the department holiday party a couple years back, but she’d grown several inches since then and now sports blue braces that flash briefly when she nervously bites her lip. I’d heard Nate mention her a thousand times, his voice always softening, but seeing her here, in the hospital, is jarring.
The break room goes silent. Every eye turns to Nate and the child—his pristine professional image visibly cracks under the weight of what is clearly an emergency situation.
“I…” he starts, then falters, his usual calm completely shattered. The collective stares of his colleagues seem to make it worse, though several smile kindly at Paige.
I stand up immediately. “Nathan. The charge office, please?”
He nods gratefully, steering Paige toward the charge nurse office just off the main corridor. As they pass, Paige clutches her book tighter, like a shield.
Once inside, Nate closes the door and turns to me, his voice low and urgent.
“Soph—Miss Mitchell. Ma’am, I apologize for the breach of protocol.” He actually uses “ma’am”. His eyes, usually so steady, dart around like he is expecting hospital administration to rappel in from the ceiling. “My babysitter didn’t show, no warning, no communication. I had no alternative childcare options available on short notice. I have no excuse, ma’am.”
I take in his stressed face, the way his shoulders are hunched. This is Nathan Crawford, my most reliable, unflappable nurse, looking like he is about to face a firing squad. I know the broad strokes of his story—everyone who works with him for any length of time does. Paige’s mom had walked out when Paige was just a baby, maybe three months old, wanting a life free of responsibility. He never talks about it, not really, but the weight of it is there, in the way he pours everything into his daughter and his job. He is trying not just 100%, but 200% to make up for that absence, and I always get the heartbreaking sense that he feels like he is still not quite enough, even though he is a superdad by any measure.
“Nathan,” I say quietly, “you could be on fire and you’d apologize for the smoke. Relax. It’s okay.”
He inhales sharply, a barely perceptible relaxation in his shoulders.
I smile at Paige. “Hi there. I’m Sophia. Your dad’s told me a lot about you.”
She gives a small, polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“Okay, Nate,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Deep breath. It happens.” My own mind is already racing. A kid in the ER, even in a quiet corner, is against every policy imaginable. Safety, HIPAA, the sheer unpredictability of what might roll through those doors. But looking at Nate’s desperate face, and little Paige trying to make herself invisible in the corner of my office…
“She can’t go out there,” I say, more gently, bringing us back to the immediate problem. “And you’ll be worried sick if she’s just tucked away somewhere.” I glance at the schedule. We are adequately staffed for the moment, but that could change with one bad call. “Can you get someone to pick her up soon?”
He runs a hand over his face. “Working on it, ma’am. My neighbor usually helps in a pinch, but she’s out of town until this afternoon. I’m calling everyone I know.”
“You could call out,” I offer, even though we both know what that means. “I can try to cover triage myself for a bit, or ask Maria to pull someone from the float pool, but…” I hesitate. “It’d count as an occurrence. And a late call-out.”
We don’t need to say the rest. HR’s latest memo has been clear: calling out within thirty minutes of your shift means an automatic written warning. One more after that, and your job is on the line. And I can’t fudge his timecard without putting both our necks on the block.
Nate just shakes his head, looking even more miserable.
