Page 12 of Christmas On Call
Max’s smile shifted—still warm, but now edged with something Asha couldn’t name. Recognition, maybe. Or challenge.
Asha looked down at her keyboard, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears.
She shouldn’t have taken that cocoa. She needed to leave. Now.
But her feet wouldn’t move.
Five minutes later, Asha found herself standing at the edge of pod two, ostensibly reviewing the ventilator settings but really just hovering, a moth drawn to a flame it knew would burn.
Max straightened, brushing her hands on her scrubs, and turned to face her. Up close, she looked as exhausted as Asha felt: eyes red-rimmed, a faint coffee stain on her collar, the kind of weariness that seeped into the bones. But she still managed to smile.
“Doctor Patel,” Max said, her voice pitched just above a whisper. “I thought you’d be halfway home by now.”
“I could say the same about you.” Asha kept her tone neutral, professional, though she was acutely aware of how close they were standing—close enough that she could smell the faint citrusof Max’s hand soap, the lingering sweetness of cocoa. “Your shift ended at six.”
Max shrugged, unrepentant. “Yeah, but it’s Christmas. Wanted to make sure my little fighters were all tucked in before I left.”
Asha glanced at the isolette, where Baby Rodriguez slept peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. “He’s stable,” Asha said. “You don’t need to?—”
“I know,” Max interrupted gently. “But it helps. For me, I mean.” She paused, then added, softer, “And for them.”
Asha didn’t have an answer for that. She watched as Max picked up her clipboard, scribbled a final note, then set it down with a decisive click.
“All right,” Max said, more to herself than to Asha. “I think I’m actually done now.” She looked up, and there was that smile again—tired, but real. “Walk out together?”
It wasn’t really a question. Or maybe it was, but Asha found herself nodding before she could think better of it.
“Fine,” she said.
Max’s grin widened, and Asha’s stomach did something traitorous and entirely unprofessional.
They gathered their things in silence: Asha’s tote bag, her parka, the thermos she’d forgotten to drink from all night; Max’s oversized backpack covered in enamel pins, her lime-green sneakers traded for a pair of battered Converse. The routine was mundane, mechanical, but Asha felt hyper-aware of every movement—the way Max slung her bag over one shoulder, the way she paused to wave goodbye to the charge nurse, the way she held the door open and waited for Asha to pass through first.
The elevator was waiting, empty and silent. They stepped inside, and the doors slid shut with a soft hiss.
For a moment, neither spoke. The floor numbers ticked down—five, four, three—and Asha stared at the brushed steelpanel, willing herself to say something normal, something that would break the strange tension coiling in her chest.
“It’s odd,” Max said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet, “leaving when the sun’s already up. Feels like the world’s just waking up and we’ve already survived the apocalypse.”
Asha’s lips twitched. “That’s the NICU every day.”
Max laughed—a real laugh, low and warm, and it echoed in the small space. “Fair point.”
The doors opened on the ground floor. They stepped out into the lobby, where a janitor was mopping the tile in slow, methodical strokes, and the gift shop’s metal gate was still pulled down. The place felt hollow, a set waiting for actors to arrive.
They walked side by side toward the exit, their footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. Asha’s hands were buried in the pockets of her parka, her fingers curled tight against the fabric. She didn’t trust them not to tremble.
Outside, the air hit her like a shock: cool and clean, smelling faintly of rain and exhaust and something green she couldn’t place. The sky was pale blue, streaked with thin clouds, and the sunlight was bright enough to make her squint. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it—real light, unfiltered by fluorescents and glass.
Max stopped a few feet from the entrance, tilting her face up toward the sun and closing her eyes. For a moment, she looked impossibly young, unguarded, her expression soft with relief.
“God,” Max said, exhaling slowly. “I forgot what fresh air feels like.”
Asha stood beside her, watching. She wanted to say something—something clever, or kind, or at least coherent—but the words stuck in her throat.
Max opened her eyes and turned to look at her. “Where are you parked?”
“Level two,” Asha said. “You?”
