Page 64 of Broken on the Mountain
Our senior staff, Dr. Richardson strides in, all gruff attending energy and zero patience for sentiment.
I stand, presenting updates in the clipped, efficient cadence he prefers, then add, "I'd like to adjust his pain protocol. Add a muscle relaxant to the rotation. He's compensating with his lower back."
Richardson's eyebrows lift. "Breath coaching now, Whitman?"
"Whatever works for the patient, doc."
He grunts, scribbles on the chart and then looks at me. "Do it."
He gives me a gentle nod, which in his language, means:Respect.
I catch Zoe's wide-eyed stare as Dr. Richardson leaves. She whispers, "How did you learn that?"
I can't help the grin, remembering Chase talking me through some breathing techniques while we picnicked at the Falls. "Just something mountain rescue taught me."
The shift blurs after that, despite the ache in my body from a severe lack of sleep.
I do my med rounds, complete discharge paperwork, a post-surgical check that goes smoother than expected. But something's shifted inside me, like a frequency I've been tuned to my whole life has finally dialed to a clearer station.
Same skillset. New softness.
Chase, without meaning to, taught me that gentle is still strong.
I think about him in the hot tub, voice raw as he admitted washing out of basic military training. He thinks he's not enoughbecause he couldn't survive a system designed to break people down from beinghuman,and rebuild them into soldiers.
But he's the strongest man I know.
By the end of my day, I'm slumped, completely exhausted at the nurses' station. The regular courier drops a small box with my name on it, and suddenly, I'm wide awake.
My heart trips, seeing Chase's handwriting on the label.
I tear into the packaging and find all my favorite treats from the mountain, and a note in Chase's messy scrawl:
You can take the girl from the mountain, but you can't take the mountain from the girl. From, Your Forever Friday
I press the note to my chest, blinking hard against the sting behind my eyes.
Zoe peers over. "Boyfriend?"
"Not exactly."
I pour the awful break-room coffee into the thermos anyway. It tastes better than usual, maybe because he's touched the vessel holding it all together.
He's sent me a piece of Stone River to carry through the week. That's what this is. Just like we talked about.
My shift ends at three, and I grab my coat, the thermos tucked carefully in my bag, and head down to the café on the corner.
It's a regular habit that's become routine now. But today, I notice how the barista barely grunts as he slides my usual across the counter. He's already glancing at the clock like he's counting down to freedom.
My phone vibrates against my hip as I wait for the coffee.
Reminder: Dress fitting, 4 PM. Mom will meet you there.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly.Right.The gala. No, not that one. Theotherone. The one I'd conveniently shoved to the back of my mind while wrapped in Chase's flannel.
I'd been planning to curl up with the wildflower guide tonight, memorize a few species so I could casually identify purple lupineor Indian paintbrush on our next hike. Watch Chase's face light up when I point one out before he does.
Instead, I get society gossip and my mother's critical eye.
