The Night Ward – Part 1: Small Hours

"Eat," said Callan.

"I'm fine."

"You haven't eaten since yesterday."

"I had a banana."

"A banana is not a meal." He pushed a plate of shortbread across the nurses' station. "Eat. Doctor's orders."

"I am the doctor."

"Then take your own advice."

Erin took a piece of shortbread and ate it, chewing with a glare. It was three in the morning on the surgical ward of a big Edinburgh hospital. The corridor was quiet and dim, lit by emergency lamps. A monitor beeped softly somewhere. She was twenty-nine, a junior doctor, six weeks into her first rotation, in rumpled scrubs and unlaced trainers, with dark circles and a stethoscope round her neck like a noose.

Callan was thirty-four, the charge nurse, broad and steady, with a shaved head, a kind weathered face and an enormous mug that said World's Okayest Nurse. He had worked nights for ten years. He knew every patient, every machine, every trick.

"Bed twelve is awake," he said.

"Again?"

"He wants his wife."

"His wife died in March."

"I know." Callan stood. "I'll sit with him."

She watched him walk down the ward, sit by the old man's bed, and take his hand. He spoke softly, steadily, for twenty minutes. The old man's agitation ebbed. He fell asleep. Callan came back to the station and sat down heavily.

"How do you do that?" said Erin.

"I just listen."

"I can't."

"You can. You do. I've seen you." He poured her a cup of tea from a flask. "You just forget to do it for yourself."

Her throat tightened. She took the tea. "Thank you."

"Can I ask you something?" said Callan.

"Yes."

"What time do you finish?"

"Seven."

"Have breakfast with me. Not a banana."

"Green?" she said, a monitor light.

"Green," said Callan, slowly smiling. "Very green. I know a place."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Handover.