T.K. Strand woke to fluorescent lights and the sting of antiseptic in the air. His head felt heavy, and his thoughts came back in fragments. The bathroom floor. His father’s voice. A pair of hands holding him steady while everything slipped out of focus. He didn’t want to remember the rest, but he did in pieces.

He stayed in the hospital bed with his eyes closed until he heard his father step out to talk to a nurse. That was when the silence settled around him, too familiar and too loud.

When he finally returned to work at the firehouse, everyone treated him carefully. He didn’t blame them, but it made him feel even more fragile. He moved through the motions, wanting the routine to anchor him, even if the world still felt unsteady.

On a call for a traffic accident, T.K. kept his attention on stabilizing a woman’s injured arm. He focused on the steps, the pressure of the bandage, the patient’s breathing. Routine. Predictable. Safe.

Then he saw a police officer directing traffic a few yards away. Carlos Reyes. The same officer who had been in the bathroom the night he overdosed. T.K. remembered his voice before he remembered his face. Calm. Steady. Annoyingly steady.

Carlos noticed him and walked over. T.K. made a point of keeping his eyes on the arm he was wrapping, hoping Carlos would get the hint. He didn’t.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be back on duty already,” Carlos said.

“I’m fine,” T.K. replied automatically, even though the tiredness in his voice betrayed him.