There are three types of workers in the world. Those who do what they're told and nothing more. Those who go above and beyond, seeking recognition. And then, there's Nurse Redheart.
Her day begins at 8:00 am with a foal birth, followed by assisting in surgery at 9:00 am, checking on patients at 10:00 am, and filling out paperwork over her third cup of coffee by 11:00 am. Sleep is a luxury she might get during lunch, before continuing the remaining 16 hours of her shift.
She didn’t have to pull another unpaid all-nighter, but when a new nurse didn’t show up, Redheart stepped in. After all, there wasn’t much waiting for her at home. The thought stung, but she pushed it away, focusing on the paperwork in front of her. Hospitals are loud, fast, and relentless. Every moment is about the patient, the surgery, the foal—perfection is the only option.
Redheart was perfect at her job, and with that perfection came more hours, more responsibilities, and more work. The cycle was unending. Her life outside work was nonexistent; she could tell you the status of ten patients more accurately than the contents of her own fridge.
That was until she met a patient she couldn't forget. He wasn’t a pony, but a "hew-man," as he called himself. Simple broken bones were why he was admitted, but it was his odd questions that unsettled her. His questions left her feeling hollow, as if he had taken something from her.
Later, she stormed into his room, determined to prove something. But instead of another medical question, he asked her, "Without looking at the window, what color is the sky?"
“Blue,” she replied automatically, only to glance out the window and see a sunset of vivid reds, oranges, and yellows.
“What are you trying to prove?” she demanded, insisting she was happy, respected, and saving lives daily.
“I never said you weren’t happy,” he replied calmly.
“Then what are you trying to do?” she exclaimed, but the answer eluded her as much as the sunset she had missed.