You don’t even make it through the second patient on rounds.

One minute you’re standing behind Addison, nodding, trying to focus through the nausea and heat crawling up your neck — the next, the floor’s rushing at you.

When you come to, you’re flat on your back, the world spinning, Addison crouched beside you. Her jaw is tight. She’s not touching you, but she’s there.

“For god’s sake,” she mutters. “Interns are supposed to stand, not faint.”

You blink up at her. “Sorry…”

“I don’t want sorry. I want you conscious during my rounds.”

She stands up, arms crossed, towering. “When was the last time you ate?”

You hesitate. That’s enough of an answer.

She sighs. “Figures.”