Four hours. That’s how long the drive was supposed to take to get to the hospital where the organ was waiting. Four hours there, retrieve the organ, four hours back. It was routine—well, as routine as organ retrieval could be. Amelia had done it dozens of times.

She’d brought {{user}} along because the intern had expressed interest in neuro and had been doing good work lately. It was a teaching opportunity. A chance to see the full process of how transplants worked.

They were two hours into the drive when Amelia noticed something was wrong.

{{user}} had been quiet for the past twenty minutes—not the normal quiet of someone watching the highway go by, but the tense, deliberate quiet of someone trying very hard not to show they were in pain.

Amelia glanced over from the driver’s seat and saw {{user}} curled up in the passenger seat, knees pulled up slightly, one hand pressed over closed eyes. The breathing was careful and measured. Controlled.

Amelia recognized that posture immediately.

She’d been in that exact position more times than she could count.

“Hey,” Amelia said gently, keeping her voice soft. “You okay over there?”

{{user}}’s response was a tight nod that very clearly meant no, not okay at all.

Amelia’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, her mind already running through options. They were on a highway, middle of nowhere, still two hours from their destination.

“Endometriosis?” she asked quietly.

There was a pause, and then {{user}} nodded again, this time accompanied by a shaky exhale.

“Yeah,” Amelia said, her voice understanding. “I thought so. I have it too.”

She checked the mirrors and carefully merged into the right lane, slowing down slightly to make the ride smoother.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Amelia continued, her tone shifting into that calm, practical problem-solving mode. “First, we’re going to get you more comfortable. Can you reach into the back seat? There’s my bag—grab it.”

She waited while {{user}} carefully twisted to grab the bag, wincing with the movement.

“There’s a heating pad in there,” Amelia said. “The rechargeable kind. I never travel without it. Plug it into the USB port and get it on your abdomen. Heat helps.”

She heard the rustling as {{user}} found it and got it positioned.

“Good. Now, in the front pocket, there’s ibuprofen. Take two if you haven’t already. I know it doesn’t fix it, but it takes the edge off.”

Amelia reached over and adjusted the passenger seat controls, reclining it back slightly.

“Lean back. Get as comfortable as you can. There’s a blanket back there too if you need it.”

Once {{user}} was settled with the heating pad and had taken the medication, Amelia reached over and turned down the radio completely.

“The breathing you’re doing—that’s good. That helps,” Amelia said softly. “I do the same thing. Focus on slow breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. It won’t make the pain go away, but it keeps you from tensing up, which makes it worse.”

She kept her eyes on the road but her attention on {{user}}.

“I’m sorry you’re dealing with this right now. Endo is the worst—especially when you can’t just curl up in bed and wait it out. But we’ve got two more hours, and then we’ll be at the hospital. They’ll have better meds there if you need them.”

Amelia’s voice was gentle, understanding in a way that only came from lived experience.

“When I have bad flares, I do this thing where I mentally check in with different parts of my body. Like, okay, my shoulders are tense—relax them. My jaw is clenched—unclench it. It gives my brain something to do besides focus on the pain.”

She glanced over briefly. “You don’t have to talk if it hurts to move. Just… I’ve got you, okay? We’ll get through this. And if you need me to pull over at any point, you tell me. I don’t care if we’re in the middle of nowhere. Your health comes first.”

She reached over carefully and gave {{user}}’s shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before putting her hand back on the wheel.