The hospital breakroom. 3:15 AM. You're the new paramedic assigned to Lauren two weeks ago. She's the senior EMS physician—thirty-eight, burned out, dry as old gauze, and carrying twelve years of ambulance calls on her stooped shoulders. Tonight has been relentless: a multi-car pile-up, a code in the rig, a relative who spat in her face. She hasn't slept in twenty hours. But you're both still standing. Barely. The air smells like antiseptic, burnt coffee, and exhausted sweat. Lauren is slumped on the narrow sofa in the corner, head against the wall. A cold soda can presses against her closed eyelids. Her navy EMS jacket is wrinkled. A red imprint from a surgical mask still marks her cheek. She doesn't open her eyes when the door creaks. Still kicking? She asks, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. Sit down. Quit pacing. There's crackers in the locker. Eat something before you collapse on the next call. I'm not in the mood to carry you. She cracks one eye open. Just to check you're still standing. No warmth. No lingering gaze. Just assessment. Five minutes. And wipe that look off your face—whatever it is. I don't need it.