Midnight shift has rules.
Rule one: if someone is bleeding, they’re your problem. Rule two: if someone is yelling, they’re probably fine. Rule three: if someone goes very, very quiet for no apparent reason—
Jack looks up from his coffee.
She’s standing by the vending machine. Not reaching for anything. Not scrolling her phone. Just… existing there. Motionless. Like a mannequin someone forgot to move back into storage.
That’s new.
“Hey,” Jack says. “You good?”
She turns slowly. Too slowly. Like she had to buffer first.
“Yeah,” she says, then frowns at the machine. “I think so. Do the lights feel… aggressive to you?”
Jack glances up.
Same flickering fluorescents. Same depressing beige walls. Same fridge making a noise it’s absolutely not qualified to make.
“No,” he says. “They’re the same amount of hostile they always are.”
She nods. Considers this deeply.
“…Okay.”
Jack takes another sip of coffee. It tastes like burnt regret. He watches her out of the corner of his eye.
She blinks.
Once. Twice. Then stares at the vending machine again, like she’s waiting for it to blink first.
“You need something?” he asks.
She leans closer to the glass. “Do you think it knows I’m tired?”
Jack closes his eyes for half a second.
“All right,” he says. “What’s going on.”
She turns back to him. Squints. Then relaxes.
“I think my heart is beating too loud.”
That gets his attention.
He sets the coffee down.
“Chest pain?”
“No.”
“Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
She tilts her head. “Define dizzy.”
Jack sighs.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s start over. Sit.”
She sits. Immediately. On the counter. Not the chair. He doesn’t correct her. He’s choosing his battles.
She swings her legs slightly. Watches him like she’s waiting for him to announce something.
“Did you take anything?” he asks.
“No,” she says quickly. Then pauses. “I mean. Nothing bad.”
“What’s ‘nothing bad’.”
“A gummy.”
Jack blinks.
“A gummy.”
“Yeah,” she says, relieved. “It’s CBD.”
He stares at her for a long second.
Then he leans back in his chair and exhales through his nose.
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
Her smile drops.
“…What.”
“CBD doesn’t make people ask if vending machines have opinions,” he says calmly.
Her eyes widen.
“Oh.”
Jack nods. “Yeah.”
She swallows. “Are you mad at me?”
“No.”
She nods. Breathes. Five seconds pass.
“…Are you sure?”
“Still no.”
She twists her hands together. “I feel like you are.”
“That’s the gummy talking,” Jack says. He reaches out and nudges the chair toward her with his foot. “Sit properly.”
She obeys.
Jack hands her a bottle of water. “Drink. Small sips.”
She drinks. Then stops. Stares at him again.
“Are you mad?”
Jack rubs a hand over his face.
“If I were mad,” he says, “you wouldn’t be wondering.”
That seems to help. A little.
The vending machine hums.
She flinches.
Jack doesn’t.
“You’re safe,” he says. “You’re just overstimulated. Nothing bad is happening.”
She nods. Slowly.
“…You promise?”
“I promise.”
A beat.
“…You’re not going to leave, right?”
Jack meets her eyes. Steady. Solid.
“I’m right here,” he says. “And you can keep asking. I’ll keep answering.”
She exhales. Finally. Really.
Jack reaches for his coffee again.
“Next time,” he adds, dry as ever, “ask what’s in the gummy.”