As a struggling single dad, I had no choice but to bring my daughter to my night shift at the hospital. She wanted to help, wandered into a patient’s room—and seconds later, the entire hospital was running toward that door.

The rain hit the tin roof of the trailer like it was trying to get inside, a frantic, percussive rhythm that matched the hammering in my chest. It was one of those cold, wet Thursdays in November where everything felt heavier, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and coming trouble. I had just gotten Debbie’s grilled cheese onto the pan, the butter sizzling in a comforting, familiar way, when my phone buzzed with a message that shattered the calm.

Randall. Shift swap stuck. Need you in by 5 instead of 7.