Chapter Two

Tuesday;

'The early bird gets the worm,' my mom used to say, her voice always cheerful as she bustled around the kitchen at dawn. Even after she died, I never lost the habit of waking up early. The quiet morning hours were my favorite, a time when the world felt still and full of promise.

Today was my day off from classes, which could only mean one thing—volunteering at the hospital. I spent most of my breaks there, keeping busy and finding some small comfort in helping others. As I pulled on a pair of jeans, the soft knock on my bedroom door broke the silence.

"Val, honey? Are you awake?" My aunt's voice came from the other side, warm and gentle. I quickly zipped up my jeans and swung open the door, greeting her with a smile.

Aunt Grace grinned back, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she wrapped me in a tight, affectionate hug. "I made you breakfast," she announced in a sing-song voice, practically dragging me toward the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm toast filled the air, wrapping the small space in a comforting embrace.

We ate together in comfortable silence, the morning sunlight streaming through the window and casting a soft glow on the faded tablecloth. As I sipped my coffee, I couldn't help but wonder why no one had put a ring on her finger yet. Aunt Grace was the kindest, most generous person I knew—beautiful, inside and out. Her laughter was infectious, her smile bright enough to light up the darkest days.

How had no one else seen that? Were the men she met secretly blind, or just too foolish to recognize what was right in front of them? It was a mystery I couldn't quite wrap my head around, but I knew one thing for sure: anyone would be lucky to have her.

Aunt Grace has been a nurse at the hospital just thirty minutes away for the past ten years. She's one of those people who seem born for the job—steady hands, quick thinking, and an endless supply of patience that never wavers, even under the toughest circumstances. She's the kind of nurse everyone trusts, always calm, collected, and fiercely dedicated.

The hospital itself is divided into two distinct sections. There's the regular wing, a bit run-down with scuffed floors and faded paint, and then there's the private healthcare wing, gleaming and pristine, where the wealthy come to be pampered as much as they do to be healed. Even from the parking lot, it's easy to tell which side is which; on one side, you have everyday cars, dented and sun-faded, while the other lot is lined with sleek, expensive vehicles—luxury sedans, shiny SUVs, and the occasional sports car.

Aunt Grace works on the private side, so I spend most of my time dealing with the wealthy patients who treat everyone around them like hired help. They look at us like we're invisible, or worse, beneath them. Some days, the urge to yank an L-VAD wire, like Izzie Stevens did in Grey's Anatomy, is almost too tempting to resist. But other days, I'm grateful for the unintentional lessons they've taught me about grace under pressure and the importance of taking the high road, no matter how tough it gets.

✿

Balancing a tray carefully on my palm, I made my way to one of the private rooms, where an older woman sat engrossed in a thick, leather-bound book. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and her pearls glimmered faintly in the soft light. Placing the tray gently on the table beside her, I flashed her a warm smile. "Good morning, ma'am," I greeted, my voice cheerful and polite. "I've brought your breakfast and something to drink."

The older woman lifted her gaze from the pages of her book, her eyes a soft, warm blue that seemed to twinkle with a hint of mischief. As she set the book down beside her, a genuine smile spread across her face, softening her elegant features. "Thank you, dear," she said, her voice smooth and pleasant, carrying the faintest trace of an accent that hinted at a life well-traveled.

I blinked, momentarily stunned. In all my time volunteering here, I'd never been met with such kindness from a patient, especially one on this side of the hospital. It was refreshing, like a cool breeze on a stifling day.

"You're not a nurse, are you?" she asked, her attention turning back to her breakfast as she carefully opened a small container of yogurt, pouring it over a bowl of freshly cut fruit with the precision of someone who's used to doing things just so.

I shook my head, setting about tidying the room—a habit I'd picked up over the weeks. "No, ma'am, I'm just a volunteer," I replied, stacking the scattered magazines neatly on the bedside table.

She waved her hand dismissively, watching me with a gentle but firm expression. "Please, don't bother with that. I'll have my daughter tidy up when she visits later." Her tone was kind, but there was a clear finality to it.

I hesitated, my hands still holding the last plump pillow I'd been about to fluff and place back in its spot. "Are you sure?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder. The older woman nodded, reassuring me with a smile.

"What's your name, dear?" she asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

I walked over, extending my hand with a smile. "Valentina, ma'am," I introduced myself, feeling her grip firm but gentle, her skin cool against mine.

"Elizabeth," she said, her name rolling off her tongue with a quiet elegance that matched her perfectly. As we shook hands, there was a warmth in her touch that felt almost motherly, and I found myself grateful for this small, unexpected connection in a place that often felt so cold and distant.

Elizabeth and I chatted for a few minutes, her easy laughter filling the sterile hospital room as she shared stories about her travels and the many books she had read. She insisted I call her by her first name, saying that "ma'am" made her feel ancient. I liked that about her—so unpretentious, especially compared to most patients on this side of the hospital.

Just as our conversation began to flow, my aunt Grace bustled into the room, her expression slightly harried. "Val, I need your help with something," she said, nodding towards the hallway. I gave Elizabeth a small wave, and she returned it with a knowing smile before turning back to her book.

Aunt Grace and I hurried down the hall where a patient had gotten sick. The sour smell of vomit hung heavy in the air, and we quickly set to work cleaning it up, our gloves snapping into place as we scrubbed at the tiled floor. Just as we were nearly finished, a young man in designer athletic gear jogged past, eyes glued to his phone. He didn't even notice the mess until it was too late—his foot slid out from under him, and he crashed to the ground in a spectacular heap, splashing through the remnants of the spill.

Aunt Grace jumped up, concern flashing across her face. "Are you okay?" she asked, reaching out to help him up. The man scrambled away, his face twisted in disgust as he waved off her assistance and stomped toward the restroom without a word, muttering under his breath.

Grace shook her head, letting out a weary sigh as she knelt back down to finish wiping the floor. "These people are blinded by their money," she muttered, frustration evident in her voice. I couldn't help but agree. How could he have missed the mess right in front of him?

Just as we finished up, the hospital's intercom crackled to life, and an urgent voice called out, "Code Blue, Code Blue in Room 112." The tension in the air tightened instantly.

Aunt Grace shot to her feet, her face now all business, and sprinted down the hall toward Room 112, her footsteps echoing off the walls. I stayed behind, heart pounding as I methodically put away the cleaning supplies, the gravity of the announcement still hanging in the air.

The rest of the day passed without any major incidents. Since I have First Aid Level 3 certification, I'm allowed to assist with minor injuries—cleaning scrapes, wrapping sprains, and making sure cuts are properly bandaged. It kept me busy, and I found a certain comfort in the routine, moving from one small task to the next as the hours slipped by.

By the time Aunt Grace's shift ended, we were both exhausted. Back at the apartment, we decided to take it easy, ordering pizza from our favorite spot down the street. The smell of melted cheese and garlic filled the air as we settled onto the couch, a movie playing in the background. Aunt Grace leaned back, the soft glow of the TV reflecting in her tired eyes, but before long, she called it a night and headed to bed. I lingered a bit longer, then made my way to my room, where I cracked open a textbook and squeezed in a quick study session before sleep.

✿

Wednesday;

The next day, I found myself back on campus, sitting through my second lecture of the day—Lab Skills. The room was filled with a low murmur of students chatting, but I barely heard any of it. My nerves were on edge, and I tapped my pen anxiously against the desk, the soft clicking filling the silent gaps in my thoughts as I waited for Prof. Montgomery's inevitable arrival.

A sharp, irritated cough suddenly cut through the room, breaking my rhythm. I glanced sideways and saw the girl next to me glaring, her expression screaming annoyance. I immediately stopped, dropping the pen to the table as my cheeks flushed slightly. "Sorry," I mouthed, offering her an apologetic smile. She rolled her eyes but looked away, and I turned my focus back to the front of the room, feeling the quiet tension settle back in.

I couldn't figure out why I was so on edge about this quiz. I'd done my part—studied the material, reviewed my notes, and gone over everything twice. Yet, my heart thudded in my chest, a nervous rhythm that refused to settle.

A few tense minutes passed before Prof. Montgomery swept into the room, her expression as severe as ever. She didn't bother with pleasantries, just a curt nod before slapping a stack of quizzes onto the first desk in each row, her sharp eyes following as the papers were passed along.

"Start," she said, her voice clipped, giving us exactly fifteen minutes—just enough time for a quick burst of panic if you didn't know your stuff. I took a deep breath, my pen poised, and dove into the questions. They were straightforward, nothing unexpected, and I found myself breezing through each one, the answers flowing easily.

Once finished, I flipped my paper over and leaned back, letting out a slow, quiet breath. The room was filled with the soft rustling of pages and the faint scratching of pens. I watched the clock tick down, the seconds stretching out until Prof. Montgomery finally called time.

She moved swiftly, collecting the quizzes with her usual efficiency, stacking them neatly on her desk without a word. Then, with a sharp clap of her hands, she spun back toward us, eyes narrowed. "Books out. Notes ready," she barked, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

Chairs scraped against the floor as we scrambled to obey, pulling out our textbooks and notebooks in a hurried flurry. The room filled with the frantic rustling of pages, each of us scrambling to keep up, trying to stay a step ahead of whatever Prof. Montgomery would throw at us next.

The lesson unfolded with a series of detailed demonstrations, Prof. Montgomery guiding us through each step of the experiment with the precision of someone who's done this a thousand times. We moved as one, following her every instruction, beakers clinking softly against each other as liquids were poured and measured, faint wisps of steam rising from the heated mixtures.

Eventually, she left us to conduct an experiment on our own. I glanced at the instructions, my eyes scanning the dense text and complex diagrams, but nothing seemed to click. I reread the steps, nibbling nervously on my bottom lip as confusion swirled in my mind. The room buzzed around me with the quiet concentration of students who seemed to grasp what they were doing. But me? I was stuck.

I stole a glance at Prof. Montgomery, who sat at her desk, head down, laser-focused on grading our quizzes. The stack of papers seemed to consume her attention, her pen moving in swift, decisive strokes. Anxiety prickled at the back of my neck. I didn't want to interrupt her. Didn't want to risk her sharp, dismissive tone.

But I couldn't just sit there. Clearing my throat, I called out softly, "Professor Montgomery?" The sound barely left my lips, and her head snapped up, eyes locking onto mine with the impatience of someone who had much better things to do. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The classroom felt stifling, her gaze piercing through the silence.

"What?" she huffed, irritation evident in her voice, her expression a mixture of impatience and annoyance. My nerves spiked, and I fumbled for the words that seemed to have abandoned me.

"I... I don't understand the experiment," I finally managed to squeak, my voice trembling slightly.

She sighed loudly, rubbing her temples as if my confusion was a personal affront. "Can you speak up? I don't have super hearing," she snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut through my timidness.

I swallowed hard, the weight of her glare pressing down on me. I gathered myself and tried again, hoping my second attempt wouldn't make me look any more foolish than I already felt.

Prof. Montgomery rose from her desk with a sigh, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor as she made her way over to me. She loomed beside my desk, her presence heavy and intimidating. Bending slightly, she skimmed over the instructions on my paper, strands of her blonde-brown hair slipping forward and brushing against the page. The scent of her perfume surrounded me—earthy and woody, with a faint hint of jasmine. It was a fragrance that fit her perfectly; sharp, bold, and devoid of any sweet, floral softness.

Her eyes flicked up, piercing and cold, and without warning, she rapped her knuckles loudly on my desk. The sudden noise made me jump, my heart skipping a beat as I sat up straighter, cheeks flushing hot with embarrassment. "Are you wasting my time?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. I stammered out an apology, my face burning under her scrutinizing gaze.

She sighed deeply, muttering something under her breath before launching into a brisk explanation of the experiment. Her voice was clipped and precise, breaking down each step with the practiced ease of someone who knew the material inside and out. I nodded along, soaking in every word, trying desperately to follow her instructions this time. I could feel the heat of her scrutiny, the unspoken demand that I pay attention.

Finally, she straightened, scanning my expression as if to make sure her words had actually sunk in. I nodded again, more confidently this time, and she gave a curt nod of her own before turning on her heel and heading back to her desk. The click of her heels faded as she resumed her place, diving back into the pile of quizzes, leaving me to tackle the experiment on my own.

Prof. Montgomery announced that we could leave if we had finished the experiment and done it correctly. The room gradually emptied as students packed up, most of them chatting quietly on their way out. Some of them hadn't been so lucky—they'd fumbled a measurement or missed a step, forcing them to redo the entire experiment. Watching their frustration, I decided to work slowly and carefully, triple-checking each step. I wanted to get it right on the first try and avoid any unnecessary embarrassment.

As I measured out the final ingredients, the classroom door swung open, and the Dean strolled in. She was a sharp-looking woman with neatly styled hair and an air of authority that filled the room. "Good morning," she said, nodding at Prof. Montgomery.

Prof. Montgomery, who was seated at her desk, glanced up briefly and returned the greeting with a curt nod, barely lifting her eyes from the papers she was marking. The Dean's gaze swept over the dwindling group of students still hunched over their work, then turned back to the professor. "Have you found a TA yet?" she asked, her tone firm but polite.

Prof. Montgomery shook her head, her expression unbothered. "Half of my students are incompetent," she replied flatly, her voice dripping with disdain. "I'm not going to bother with one this year."

The Dean sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if trying to ward off a headache. "Johanna," she said, her voice edged with a mix of frustration and insistence, "find one that's not as incompetent. You know it's mandatory that one third-year student becomes your TA."

Prof. Montgomery rolled her eyes subtly, letting out a weary sigh. "Alright," she muttered, clearly not thrilled with the idea. The Dean gave a satisfied nod, turning on her heel and marching out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

From my spot near the back of the classroom, I could see Prof. Montgomery muttering under her breath, her lips moving rapidly as she scribbled harshly across a student's quiz. I was too far away to catch her words, but her expression said it all—impatience, annoyance, and maybe a hint of disdain. I couldn't help but pity whoever ended up as her TA; stuck in this room with her for hours on end, dealing with her sharp tongue and constant criticism? No, thank you.

Glancing around, I realized I was now the last one left. The room felt emptier, the silence almost oppressive. I could feel the weight of the clock ticking, pushing me to wrap things up. I hurried through the final steps of the experiment, my hands moving faster than they should have. My calculations slipped, and suddenly, the solution fizzled out, failing spectacularly right before my eyes.

"Crap!" I shouted, slamming my fist on the table in frustration. The impact sent the glass tubes rattling precariously close to the edge.

Prof. Montgomery's eyes remained fixed on her papers, but her voice cut through the silence like a knife. "If you break anything, you'll be paying for replacements," she said coldly, not bothering to look up.

With a quick, embarrassed nod, I carefully moved everything back from the edge of the desk, terrified of knocking something over. I took a deep breath, pushing down the frustration, and started over, determined to get it right. This time, I double-checked every step, meticulously measuring and recalculating, refusing to rush. After what felt like an eternity, the experiment finally went off without a hitch.

Satisfied, I began to clean my station, returning each piece of equipment to its proper place. I couldn't help but shake my head at myself—if I hadn't rushed the first time, I'd have been out of here already. But there was no point dwelling on it now. What's done is done.

Once I was sure everything was in order, I grabbed my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and took one last look around the empty lab. One more lecture, I thought, and then I could finally go home.