Ziggy moaned. I leaned him back to make sure he could breathe without issue. "Mr. Ziegler?"

His eyes fluttered as he looked up at me. His brows furrowed with confusion and with a groggy voice asked, "You trying to pull a move on me or did I pass out again?"

"You passed out."

He cursed under his breath. When he made a move to sit up, I stopped him. "Try not to move," I said. He resigned with a sigh. I gently tilted his head to the side and found the pulse at his neck. It was slow. His face tensed again. "Are you hurting again?"

"Yeah. Everywhere."

It made no sense. He was perfectly fine two minutes before. It was no wonder they thought he was a medical mystery. I was starting to as well.

Theresa rushed into the room with another nurse. She took one look at me and frowned. "Don't tell me you let him stand on his own."

"Fine, I won't tell you," I said. She didn't find that funny. She leaned down with a huff and helped lift Ziggy off me and back onto the gurney.

"I'm so sorry," he said apologetically. It sounded genuine, not forced or formal like it did when someone apologized out of expectation. "Don't know when I became so high maintenance." Maybe he was a nice guy when he wasn't busy hitting on someone.

"Do us a favor and stop trying to stand on your own," Theresa scolded him like a mother.

"Yes ma'am," Ziggy said with a coy smile. He turned to me and his expression grew serious. "I didn't hurt you did I?" he asked me quietly.

I rubbed my undoubtedly bruised hip out of his view. "No, don't worry. Just listen to Nurse Diaz so we don't get in any more trouble, okay?"

He smiled. "Okay."

Later in the day, I began our shift change checks with Theresa. We went from one decadent private room to the next, and all the patients seemed to have the same theme: ready to go home. The rounds went by quickly.

Our last stop was Mr. Ziegler, who we learned would not be leaving for the foreseeable future due to the morning's incident. Though he was a bit crass, I could appreciate his playful yet inappropriate sense of humor. If I could figure out ways to relate to him, it would make it easier to get him to divulge more nuanced information that could aid in his diagnosis and care. That was the ultimate goal.

Theresa tapped on his door and we went in. He sat cross-legged on his bed with the tray rolled in front of him. He stared at his laptop through thick-framed glasses, nodding his head to the music coming from his designer headphones. "Good evening, Mr. Ziegler," Theresa greeted him, but he didn't respond.

I walked over and leaned into his view. He looked up and removed his headphones. "Hi. Sorry."

"We're here to do our final check before you turn in."

"Cool." He pushed his tray away and turned to us.

"Any fainting spells, dizziness, or lightheadedness today?" Theresa asked as she logged into the computer.

"No, just the one time," he said. He seemed like he was telling the truth.

I listened to the music coming through the headphones at his neck and recognize the song. "You like Misterwives?" I asked.

He looked intrigued. "Maybe. What of it?" he said with a smirk.

"Indie pop?" I chuckled. "Look at the hipster calling the hipster, hipster."

He laughed as Theresa placed the blood pressure cuff on his arm. I glanced over at his computer screen and saw the image of a beautiful woman staring off into the distance, an artistic mix of dirt and oil on her face. The sepia tone looked apocalyptic but added focus to her flawless skin and dramatic eyelashes. I found myself staring at it.

"See something you like?" he asked.

"Is that yours?"

"The woman or the shot?" He gave me a cheeky smile. "Yes, it's my work. Mascara ad."

"I'm impressed."

Theresa took off the cuff and began entering his information on the touchscreen. "Does it make you want eyelashes like hers?" he asked me.

I look back at the picture. "Among other things, yes." I took out the thermometer and ran it across his forehead and cheek, then showed it to Theresa. He continued to smirk.

"I'll let you in on a secret." He leaned over and held down a couple of keys. The imaged changed to a full-color version of the shot, the woman's skin still beautiful, but with noticeable, human imperfections, and about 15 layers of mascara. When he let go of the keys, the artistic version returned. The difference was dramatic. "Photoshop is a powerful tool, but it is a tool." He looked me in the eyes. "You are a natural beauty, Sabine. You should respect that. Don't let my industry convince you otherwise," he said in his even, genuine way. My cheeks warmed.

"What about me?" Theresa joined in. She looked at him in her usual, unenthusiastic scowl.

He flashed his megawatt smile. "Yes, you too. Especially you, Theresa."

I sat on my sofa that night, surrounded by the boxes Rebecca would eventually use to pack. Until then, she would leave them in the living room to upset me with the clutter and the reminder that she was leaving me.

She was my oldest friend. We had known each other since high school, had been roommates since college, but that would be changing in two months. Newly engaged, she and her fiancé, Todd, wasted no time making plans and buying a house. Though she was a bit cold and detached at times, I was already mourning the loss of her company.

It would be the first time I had lived alone. That probably wasn't something people in their late twenties should be able to say, but student loans and the rising cost of living didn't leave me with many options.

On Instagram, I finalized the hashtags to go with the picture of the fancy meal from the semi-famous restaurant where we had just finish eating and watched the likes trickle in. I felt curious and decided to look up Mr. Ziegler's account, expecting one million "Ziggy" profiles to pop up. To my surprise, his face popped up on one of the top verified accounts. I clicked on it.

"Holy shit," I said to myself when I saw his profile. His posts were mainly final images of magazine spreads, one of which I recognized from a Vogue shoot with a young up-and-coming actress I follow. He rarely posted a picture of himself, but in most, he was holding a camera. There was one amazing shot of him behind the scenes at some sort of shoot at an elephant sanctuary. In another, he was lying on his back on the wet ground taking a low-angle shot of a model standing in the wind, her luxurious couture gown floating around her. His profile was amazing.

"What's that?" Rebecca asked over my shoulder.

"This is my new patient. He said he was a fashion photographer or something so I was curious." I scrolled carefully through the images as I passed week forty-five.

"Is that him?" she asked when I passed a picture of him holding his camera on his shoulder, squinting as he looked into the distance, a dramatic orange sunset behind him.

"Yeah." I continued to scroll. "He's really talented."

"You mean really hot." She leaned over my shoulder, scrolled down, and tapped the follow button. "There. I helped."

"He has over sixty thousand followers. I doubt he'll even notice."

"Well, it can't hurt." She started to unpin her long, blonde locks from her top knot. "You gotta get good dick where you can, girl. That man gives some good dick, I can tell."

I nearly snorted. "Okay, dick-tective," I laughed her off. "Didn't you just give up all dicks but one for the rest of your life?"

"Yeah, because Todd gives amazing dick. Why do you think I'm marrying him?"

That cracked me up. I laughed until I was in tears, and she looked like she never made a joke. I would miss her deadpan delivery of her unsolicited, yet well-intentioned judgment.

"You know, we should probably start talking about your Maid of Honor duties." Rebecca was a serious planner. She had a two-year plan that had details by the week. I could never live like that. Nothing in my life had ever gone according to plan.

I sighed. "I have a long day tomorrow. Can we talk about this . . . never?" I joked. I stood to go to bed.

"You can be sarcastic all you want, but you'll still have to do it eventually."

"Of course. I am but your humble servant, Your Majesty," I said with a curtsy. She threw a pillow at me and laughed.

The next morning, I sat next to Theresa while the attendings discussed our patients.

Our attending, Dr. Smith, was an old-school stickler for hierarchy. He was young for his mindset, maybe forty or forty-five, and seemed threatened by anyone who questioned his authority as Chief of Diagnostics. He had no female doctors on his service, and always had something to say about the staffing schedules. His only redeeming quality is that he listened to what the head nurses had observed while he was away. For the most part, at least. He was very smart, but he was also a bit of a prick.

Every week, the heads of each department got together to compare patient notes, and every week, Dr. Smith tried to prove his superiority.

"Moving on to Mr. Ziegler," he began. I perked up, excited to hear a possible diagnosis. "His symptoms are a bit misleading. Everything is pointing to the fact that something being wrong, yet all definitive testing is coming back negative or inconclusive."

The oncologist, Dr. Mathews, spoke up. "Do you have the results of his MRI?" Smith handed them over. Mathews strokes his short, white beard as he studied them. To me, he looked like an off-season Santa Claus. He was in impressive shape for being sixty but had a full head of gray hair, and a well-trimmed beard the color of snow. He was a well-known surgeon in his field, or so the nurses said. "There is a bit of a shadow between the pancreas and duodenojejunal flexure."

"There is no shadow," Smith said plainly. "Have we considered anything psychosomatic?"

"Have you considered something more serious?" I asked.

He turned and looked at me challengingly. "Like what, Nurse Brennan?"

"When he passed out the last time, his face tensed like he was hurting. Maybe the fainting spells are a vasovagal syncope in response to a deeper pain." The doctors looked at me curiously, so I continued. "Looking through his chart, his white cell counts were elevated. I know that doesn't mean anything specific, but maybe the lack of definitive results leans towards a general infection or some kind of cancer."

"Is that all?" he asked me with a raised eyebrow. I knew that meant to shut up, so I did just that. "I would run additional blood panels and a lumbar puncture to see if there is a connection between his high white cell count and back pain." I smiled, knowing he listened at least a little. "Also, let's request a psych consult." My smile faded.

I knew he was wrong but hoped he was right. No one wants cancer to be the answer.

I paged psych and returned to Theresa for staffing. We had a few rolling CMAs and CNAs shared between departments, but only four full-time RNs, Theresa, Denise, Tiffany, and me.

Everyone was nice enough but I kept picking up on a bit of animosity. I outranked them technically, having more certifications from my previous positions, putting me next in line for Charge Nurse when Theresa was ultimately promoted. I couldn't tell if their distaste came from an outsider cutting in line for a position, or if it stemmed from something more than that.

I didn't seem to fit. They were all native to California, unlike me, and talked about things in terms I had yet to learn. They managed to coordinate the color of their scrubs each day and I had yet to figure out how. Every day they would show up with their hair done and makeup on while I would be lucky I rolled out of bed in enough time to wash my hair at all. More noticeably, I was the only one with a healthy BMI.

They would spend all lunch talking about their meals and new diet plans, but go silent every time I tried to join in on the conversation. Comments here and there about my scrubs being too loose, or comments about how it "must be nice" to wear some of the things I arrived to work in. I understood the animosity came from the social construct that led us to believe thin women were more beautiful, but some of their comments hurt my feelings.

I wanted to be their friend, to be part of a group of twenty-somethings trying to make it in the big city, but I wasn't there yet. Their hesitance to let me in was upsetting, but I had been the new girl before. We would warm up eventually.

Theresa snapped me out of my self-pity when she looked my way. "Mr. Ziegler is getting the blood tests. If you could make sure the CMA isn't butchering him like she tends to do, I would very much appreciate it," Theresa said.

"Sure thing." Theresa could ask me to cut off my own arm in front of her and I would consider it. I found myself smiling as I went to his room. "Mr. Ziegler," I say, knocking on the door as I entered.

"Hi," he said with a grimace.

"What's wrong?" I asked him.

"I really hate needles."

I laughed. "You have full sleeves, how do you hate needles?"

"I never said it made sense," he said jokingly. "This one is much bigger. And slower." He looked nauseous as he said it.

"But it only has to go in once," I tried to distract him while the CMA got him hooked up. "Just think, these tests will help the doctors figure out what's going on with you, then they will be able to make you feel better and you can leave."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Good. Not that I'm feeling like shit or anything. I just kinda feel like shit." I smiled and patted his arm. He stared as the nurse went to place the needle. "Ow! Fuck!" he pulled his arm away, covering the spot with his hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to do that," he said apologetically. "I'm just being a pansy today."

"Do you want me to do it?" I asked him. He nodded. "If I screw it up, he'll never let me live it down," I said to the CMA to soften the blow, but she did not seem amused. I put on gloves and cleaned up the spot from his failed puncture, noticing it was not on the vein. She was well on her way to butchering him. Theresa always knows best. I place the tourniquet on his other beautifully tattooed arm. "Let's give this one a shot, shall we?"

He looked nervous. "I hate this so much," he whined.

"I know." I find a promising vein and gave him a warm smile. "Look away and it will make it better," I instructed as I cleaned off the area. He complied. "You've had to have tattoos that hurt way worse than this."

"No, I avoided all those."

"Really? The fingers didn't hurt?"

He lifted his other hand as if to help him remember. "Yeah, I guess they did hurt." I readied the needle. "Will you tell me before you do it?" he asked as I placed it.

"No, because it's done."

He looked at his arm then up to me.

"Holy shit, you're good."

"That's what they all tell me," I winked at him.

He gave me a mischievous smile. "Stealing my best lines, Ms. Brennan?"

"Unoriginal, I know. I've been told I'm basic."

"Well, what you lack in originality you make up for in sheer aesthetics." I sneered at him while switching out the tube and watched him looking me up and down. "Seriously, though. Why are you a nurse?"

I sighed amusedly. "Because I care about people's insides more than their outsides. Unlike someone I know." I smiled and retract the needle from his arm without warning. He hissed quietly as I did it, but he knew he deserved it. "We will get these to the lab, and hopefully we'll have a diagnosis for you soon."

"Here's hoping." I placed his bandage. "Thank you for putting up with me. I know I tend to be a prick around insanely beautiful women."

I pursed my lips, trying to keep from smiling. "Thank you for the never-ending, unsolicited compliments," I said disingenuously. "But I'm here for whoever needs me, whether they're a prick or not."

"Well, I appreciate it nonetheless." He gave me a smile so handsome I forgot to say anything when I left his room. I stumbled out with the samples.

Flirtatious patients like him were usually annoying, but Ziggy was far too entertaining to hate. I liked him. For now, at least.