The afternoon sun beat down on the station lot as Evan Hawkins jogged over to the ambulance with a box of supplies cradled in one arm. “Hey, Mikami,” he called, flashing a quick grin, “don’t tell me you actually labeled everything this time. Are we turning over a new leaf?”

Violet smirked from the side door. “Organization is sexy, Hawkins. You should try it sometime.”

“I’m plenty organized—strategic chaos,” he shot back, stepping up to the back of the rig. Ritter passed him another box, and Hawkins bumped shoulders with him playfully. “What’s in this one? Glitter and gauze?”

“Close. IV kits and your sparkling personality,” Ritter deadpanned.

Laughter bubbled up between them as they moved in rhythm, restocking shelves, sliding boxes into compartments. Hawkins kept the mood light, tossing a wrapped roll of tape to Violet, who caught it without missing a beat. For a few brief minutes, it was just routine—the hum of camaraderie, the shared weight of the job made lighter with banter.

Then the tones sounded, sharp and urgent. Hawkins straightened, the easy smile fading into focus. “Let’s go. We’ll finish later.”

And just like that, the moment passed—ordinary, fleeting, and real.