the hospital was really quiet in the way it only could be past midnight — machines hummed faintly in the distance, the fluorescent lights buzzed, the sterile air of PTMC settled into its off-hours lull.

a lot of the er had emptied after the night shift had come in for handover, but the library across the hospital still glowed. samira was sat with stacks of binders that were colour coded and arranged to perfection, open charts scattered across the table, and three empty coffee cups from the coffee machine down the hall that covered nearly the whole table. she sat with them, posture straight even though she was exhausted, her pen clicking as she continued to fiddle with it.

the light coming from the library had caught your attention, and you stopped in the doorway, half out of curiosity, and the other half out of concern. you’d known samira long enough now to know how she had a habit of often skipping breaks, and how she let her twelve hours shift extend to sixteen hours without even batting an eyelid.

and samira wasn’t the type of person to realise how exhausted she felt, let alone how exhausted she felt. her hair was falling out in small strands, there was ink on her hands, and beneath her eyes there were small shadows, all indicators of her tiredness.

you knocked lightly on the doorframe of the library, and her head snaps up. her expression is startled, but it softens when her eyes fall on you. “you’re still here?” she ask quietly. “i thought you left after the last trauma with everyone else.”

you shake your head, stepping inside. the smell of the books mingles with the everlasting smell of antiseptic that the hospital carries. you peer at the things scattered on the table. there’s charts that are colour coded, graphs that are labelled patient outcomes, and notes that go back as far as 2003. there’s different things. recovery rates, times of treatments, complications.

samira’s handwriting is flawless. it’s neat and deliberate, and there’s one sentence underlined with pink highlighter: equity gap widening

she follows your gaze, and smiles, sheepish and tired, but genuine all the same. “i know it’s weird… it’s kind of an obsession.” she admits quietly. “i’ve been pulling data from the last twenty three years. i’m trying to track how often delayed care changes the outcomes for patients. you’d have think by now we’d have… fixed some of this, right?”

you can see the strain in her shoulders, the exhaustion fighting her focus. you know about her father’s death, at least what’s been whispered around the staff room. she mentioned once, briefly, that he waited too long to be seen. and to you, suddenly, the late nights, the obsession, the need for perfection — it all clicks.

“fancy a fresh coffee? you’ve been here since seven. you’re probably running on empty.” you offer.

she hesitates, before nodding. you smile, and something flickers across her face — something warmer, something that almost looks like relief. you return with two steaming cups, and she moves aside a pile of charts to make room for you, a silent invitation.

she begins showing you parts of her research, sliding a folder closer. “look at this,” she murmurs, eyes bright despite how tired she looks. “this was a twenty-nine-year-old. same condition, same symptoms, same triage time — but one got seen five minutes earlier. it changed everything.” she traces the lines of the data with her finger, her voice softening as she speaks. “people think medicine is objective, but it’s built on a thousand tiny decisions. and some people…” she trails off, searching for the right words. “Some people don’t get the benefit of doubt.”

when she finally glances up at you, the weight behind her gaze makes your chest tighten.

she’s confiding.