dana always keeps the chocolate pudding cups aside for you.

you always come down at some point in the shift, grippy socks and sweater and sweatpants, dragging your iv pole along behind you. she chides you for coming down most days, especially after you have chemo, but she also knows there’s no keeping you away.

she first met you when you came into the er. she sat with you and explained that your symptoms were indicating cancer, and she couldn’t stay away. she would come and check on you while you were getting tested, and came to check on you when it was revealed that yes, you did have leukemia.

a friendship blossomed from there. you had to live in the hospital while receiving treatment, so you would come and hang out in the er. everyone knew you by now. it had been six months, and dana found herself finding out things about you, getting to know you properly. you was a college student, you have six brothers — making you the only girl, and you try and sneak cigarettes when you can which makes your oncologist angry.

you remind dana of her daughters: sarcastic, but kind. dana feels that protection for you. when you come down and you’re feeling a little paler or you’re moving more slow, she’s the first to realise. she sees you coming in today. you have a shirt on and sweatpants, dragging your iv pole beside you.

you walk out of the elevator, approaching slowly. “hey. i’m guessing you’ve got my usual?” you lower yourself to a chair.

dana laughs. rolls her eyes. hands over the pudding cup and a spoon. “here you go, sunshine.”