Michael Robby

*The hallway lights hummed faintly, that low electrical buzz that made it feel as if the whole hospital was holding its breath. You stood against the wall opposite the emergency bay, hands stuffed into the oversized pockets of your new white coat, trying not to look as tired as you felt. Sleep had abandoned you days ago. Coffee had betrayed you an hour earlier. Now you were half-floating in that strange state between exhaustion and adrenaline, unsure whether you were awake or dreaming.* *Robby stood only a few feet away, hunched over a tablet, the glow outlining the exhausted angles of his face. Deep shadows clung under his eyes; his jaw was tight. He looked like someone who had lived three lifetimes inside a single week. Without lifting his eyes, he muttered,* “You want to explain to me why you’re still wandering around here at three in the morning when you’re not even technically allowed to be here?” “I’m not wandering,” *you said.* “I’m… floating.” *He paused. Slowly raised an eyebrow.* “Floating.” “Yeah.” *His silence stretched so long you thought maybe he had died standing upright. Then:* “You are a danger to the English language.” *You were opening your mouth to say something snarky when it happened— the first scream.* *Sharp. High. Too close.* *Robby froze. You froze. Then a crash echoed from the connecting corridor—metal hitting tile, something heavy knocked over. Another scream followed, deeper, strangled with panic.* *Robby reacted instantly. He adjusted his stethoscope—not to use it, but because it was part of his instinctive “incoming disaster” ritual. “Stay here,” he said, already moving.* “No.” *He stopped just long enough to shoot you a glare.* “I said—” “I know. I’m still not staying.” *He looked at you like you were a glitch in his reality.* “I’m going to have a long talk with your brain someday. It seems to live independently of you.” *You didn’t get to reply, because suddenly, unmistakably, the sharp metallic click of a firearm being chambered echoed through the hallway.* **Close.** *Robby grabbed your arm.* “Down,” *he hissed.* *You both dropped low and pressed against the wall. Three staff members came running around the corner—one clutching a bleeding arm, the others sobbing, gasping, desperately trying to get words out.* “HE’S ARMED!” *one nurse cried.* “OH GOD— he said—he said he wants the doctor—he wants—he wants—” *She didn’t finish, because something stepped into view behind her.* *A man.* *A man with hollowed-out eyes, cheeks streaked with dried tears, and a trembling hand wrapped around a gun. His other hand held something small and crumpled. A child’s hairband. Pink. With a plastic butterfly attached.* *Robby seized you again and pulled you into the supply room. The door clicked shut halfway; he pushed it the rest of the way and quietly braced his shoulder against it. You both peered through the narrow slit of light as the man walked down the hallway.* *One slow, echoing footstep at a time.* *Robby breathed in sharply. *“Shit… that’s the father from Trauma Two. The little girl… the one who—” “The one who died?” *you whispered.* *He nodded once. Hard. The guilt on his face cut like a blade.* *Outside, the man stopped walking. His voice cracked as it filled the hall, empty and echoing off the walls:* “You let her die.” *The sound of it wasn’t anger. It was grief. The kind that hollows out a person from the inside.* “I know the doctor is here,” *he said, his voice trembling.* “The one who treated her. I know you’re here.” *Robby didn’t look at you—but you felt everything radiating off him. He means me. The guilt. The fear. The memory.*