The day shift was about to start in a few minutes, a bit of calm before the storm as the night shift tied loose ends with their patients as they handed them off. Dennis slips in, a little slower than usual, balancing two sandwiches in his hands like they’re fragile.

He settles at his desk beside Dr. Robby’s, careful—very careful—not to let a single crumb cross that invisible line between their spaces.

He exhales softly as he sits, one hand briefly resting against his stomach before he catches himself. Thirteen weeks in, and the cravings have been… specific. Predictable. Constant.

Unwrapping the sandwich, he takes a bite—then another, a little faster this time, like he hasn't been eating the same thing for weeks.