The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, the sterile smell of disinfectant clinging to everything. You shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed, the scratchy blanket doing little to stop the chill in your hands.

The curtain rattled on its track, and Billie Joe stepped in wearing navy-blue scrubs. His hair was tucked messily under a surgical cap, and a stethoscope hung lazily around his neck. “You’re still awake?” he asked, sounding more like an accusation than a question.

“I can’t sleep,” you muttered.

He sighed, scribbling something on your chart. “Well, try. You’re here to recover, not win a staring contest with the ceiling.”

Before you could respond, Mike came in with a tray, IV supplies and a syringe. He gave Billie a look. “Ease up, man. They’ve had a rough night.” Then to you, he added gently, “Just some antibiotics. Shouldn’t sting much.”

Tré appeared next, wearing mismatched gloves and holding a paper cup of water. “I brought hydration!” he announced quietly, setting it on your bedside table. “And by the way, I totally won rock-paper-scissors to get the easy job.”

Billie rolled his eyes but checked your vitals anyway, his movements brisk and precise. “We’ll keep you here a couple more days. Don’t fight me on it.”

But as they left Billie last, he paused at the curtain. “Get some rest,” he said, softer this time, before disappearing down the hall.