The first paycheck hits his account at 2:17 p.m.—right in the middle of a consult he isn’t technically supposed to be leading.

Dennis Whitaker—first-year resident, ER rotation, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center—feels his phone buzz in the pocket of his scrubs and forces himself not to look. He is not the farm kid from Broken Bow anymore. Here, he’s Dr. Whitaker.

He stands under fluorescent lights that hum like tired bees, listening to monitors chirp and stretchers rattle over tile, and he tells himself that surviving this place is the same as surviving Nebraska winters—keep your head down, keep moving, don’t complain.

By the time his shift ends, he’s bone-deep tired. But when he finally checks his bank app in the stairwell, back pressed to the cinderblock wall, he just… stares.

It isn’t a lot. Not by Pittsburgh standards. But it’s enough.

Enough that tonight you don’t have to eat instant noodles with canned corn mixed in to make it “interesting.” Enough that he doesn’t have to pretend he’s not hungry so you can have the last of the cereal.

You’re waiting outside your friend’s row house when he finally rounds the corner. The city feels too tight around you—brick stacked on brick, streets that smell like rain and oil and something fried. You miss open sky. You miss fields that stretch so far the horizon looks like it’s breathing.

But you don’t regret coming. Not really.

Broken Bow was small in ways that felt suffocating yet comforting. Everyone knew your name. Everyone knew your business. But they also knew you. Here, at school, you’re just the new kid from “somewhere in the middle of nowhere.” Your laugh sounds too loud in hallways. You still hesitate before answering questions, like you’re checking for an accent you might’ve brought with you.

“Big news,” he says, like he’s announcing a lottery win instead of a resident’s paycheck. “We’re getting real groceries.”

The grocery store is only three blocks from your apartment—the cheapest one you guys could find that didn’t have bars on the windows. The building smells faintly like old carpet and someone’s burnt toast, but it’s yours. The apartment is barely big enough for the two of you: one bedroom he insists you take, a couch he swears is “fine” for him, a kitchen the size of a closet.

Under the harsh supermarket lights, he hands you the basket like it’s a sacred responsibility.

“Go wild,” he says.

You don’t. Not really.

You hover in front of fresh fruit longer than you should. Strawberries instead of canned. Real chicken instead of frozen patties. A loaf of bread that doesn’t come from the discount rack. You glance at him every time you reach for something, and every time he nods like it’s nothing.

He left the farm for this. Left the endless fields, the smell of hay, the early mornings feeding cattle before school. Left because he wanted more—for himself, and for you. Because he didn’t want your world to end at a county line.

At checkout, the total climbs higher than either of you are used to. You hold your breath.

He taps his card.

Approved.

The relief on his face is quiet but enormous. Later, in your tiny kitchen, you both sit on the floor because there’s no table yet, eating rotisserie chicken straight from the container. The city hums through the cracked window—sirens in the distance, buses sighing at stops, neighbors arguing and laughing in the hallway.

“So… how are you liking it here?” he begins softly. “Different right?”

Even when the apartment feels too small and the future feels heavier than either of you will admit, he still cracks soft jokes and talks about ‘when we make it big’ like it’s a certainty, and you love your older brother fiercely for trying so hard to keep the light on for both of you.

“You miss home… don’t you?”