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Cassie McKay is tired. She’s always tired these days, but today the exhaustion seeps deep into her bones and settles there, threatening to stay for eternity. She can confidently say that today’s shift was the worst she’d ever experienced. The weight of the MCI, the patients she was unable to save, Chad’s visit, and the fact that she had just worked nearly 15 continuous hours all piled up on top of her, and all she wanted to do was go home, take a long, hot shower, and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. Her run-in with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police ensured she was unable to complete the last part of her dream. The last thing Cassie wanted was to show up at the police department at seven in the morning tomorrow and explain, Yes sir, I drilled a hole through my ankle monitor because I was saving lives. Yes, I am aware that violates my parole. No, I won’t do it again.
Cassie is just about to exit out the big glass doors of the PTMC when she catches something out of the corner of her eye. It’s Whitaker, the new MS4, pushing open the emergency door and disappearing into the stairwell. Typically, Cassie would mind her own business, but something about the nervous look Whitaker threw over his shoulder pulls tightly at her chest. Cassie watches the door swing shut, frozen in place, because something is wrong. She can feel it, deep in her bones.
Before she can talk herself out of it, Cassie finds herself trailing Whitaker, making sure to stay far enough behind to remain unnoticed.
The eighth floor has been abandoned for a while, at least as long as Cassie has worked at PTMC, which is why it surprises her when Whitaker walks through the unlocked door and makes his way down the hallway confidently, slipping into room 807. He doesn’t bother to close the door behind him. That was all the invitation Cassie needed to approach and peek her head in the door.
Whitaker was shirtless and facing away from Cassie, humming along to a song blasting through his cheap earphones. Before she could even speak, Whitaker spun around, locked eyes with Cassie, and yelped, ripping his earphones out and stumbling backwards. His eyes were wide with fear as he grabbed the shirt that was lying on his bed and pulled it over his head. It hung disturbingly loose on Whitaker’s frame, and Cassie wonders if the boy is eating enough. He certainly doesn’t look like he is, and that stolen snack cart sandwich definitely won't give him enough calories for the day.
“Listen, it’s not what it looks like,” Whitaker says frantically, breaking her out of her thoughts.
The poor boy is practically shaking with fear, and Cassie realizes she should probably speak up. She’s been staring at him, and she doesn’t want him to feel more scrutinized than he probably already does.
“What is it, then?”
Whitaker looks down, his cheeks turning a deep red, and Cassie can practically see the cogs turning in his head as he attempts to come up with an excuse. Eventually, he looks up, biting the inside of his cheek before speaking.
“I will, on occasion, after a long shift… crash here.”
He says the last part quietly, ashamed, and Cassie knows it’s a lie. He’s clearly been living here for a while, if his meager amount of possessions strewn about was any evidence. A black duffel bag sits in the corner. There are piles of textbooks on the floor, a pair of scrubs hanging over the back of a chair, and a small stash of instant ramen noodles resting on the windowsill. Whitaker’s ancient laptop sits on the hastily made bed, next to an open notebook, full of illegible scribbles.
“Today was your first day.” She says, raising one of her eyebrows.
“Yeah, but um… I did my internal medicine rotation a month ago.”
“You live here?” She asks, and as soon as she does, Whitaker’s eyes snap up to meet hers. His eyes are brimming with tears, pleading, and Cassie watches as he attempts to blink them away.
“Don’t tell anyone. Please. I can be out of here by tonight. I just… I just need to pack my things, and I’ll be gone. Please.”
God, he looks so young. Almost like Harrison, Cassie’s brain supplies, but she shuts the thought out before it can fester and hurt too much. Really, Cassie doesn’t know what to do about this whole situation. She can’t let him stay here. If anyone, god forbid, Gloria, found out about Whitaker’s situation, he would surely lose his internship. Possibly future ones as well. Whitaker has the potential to be an incredible doctor, and Cassie can’t let his entire future slip away because of this.
“Have you met Kiara? She’s our social worker, and I’m sure she can-”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a patient,” Whitaker says, abruptly cutting Cassie off, “I’ve tried everything. Most shelters end check-in way before my shift is over. The ones that allow check-in late always run out of beds before I can get there. Most of them are overcrowded, and dirty, and I can’t get sick because I can’t afford a doctor-”
“Whoa, hey. Whitaker. Breathe.”
Cassie strides closer to him, placing a gentle hand on his back and guiding Whitaker to sit on the bed, before taking her place next to him. Spiraling won’t do him any good. Cassie’s been here when she was much, much younger. She knows what it’s like sleeping in shelters, and she can’t imagine conditions have improved much since then. She knows what it’s like to go without food for longer than she should, and she knows what it’s like to have no support system. Cassie’s better now. She doesn’t have much, but she has an apartment, a couch, and food, and Harrison is staying at her dad’s tonight anyway. She would never be able to forgive herself if she let Whitaker find his way to a shitty, underfunded shelter tonight. Or worse, curl up on a park bench in fifty-degree weather. The kid looks like he needs a mom. Someone to worry about him. Cassie doesn’t know if he has anybody like that, but if she has to be that person, she will.
“How about you stay with me tonight? I don’t have an extra bed for you, but I’ve got a couch,” She offers, still rubbing slow circles into his back.
Whitaker tilts his head to meet her gaze, and she can already see the hesitation in his eyes. Cassie knows from experience that it’s hard to trust people, but before he can say no to something he so desperately needs, she begins speaking again.
“It’s really no trouble at all. My son is staying with my parents tonight, and I need someone to split the last of some chili with me. You can stay until we find you a good place, yeah?”
Whitaker gulps, seeming to turn it over in his head for a few moments, before shakily nodding.
“Yeah. Okay. I just,” He glances around the room, seeming to take stock of everything he has, “I just need a few minutes to pack up.”
“Take all the time you need. I’ll wait for you downstairs,” Cassie says, offering Whitaker a warm smile. As she makes her way out of Whitaker’s makeshift living space and down the stairs, she can hear him scrambling around, taking stock and gathering all his belongings. By the time she makes her way to the bottom floor, chairs has only gotten more crowded. There’s a teenage girl with a broken arm, an older man nursing a bleeding nose, and a woman clutching her stomach tightly. A young boy with a black eye is asleep in his mother’s lap, and a man with no visible injuries is yelling to be seen by a doctor. A pregnant woman is grimacing in pain, clutching the hand of the man sitting next to her. Just as Cassie notices their matching wedding bands, she hears the door behind her open, and she whips around.
Whitaker stands stiffly, his black duffel bag clenched tightly in his left hand, while he plays with the strings of his hoodie with his right. He’s staring down at his scuffed-up sneakers. Cassie notices that the laces are beginning to fray and the toe is forming holes. She’ll have to see if Chad left any of his old sneakers at the apartment. He and Whitaker appear to have about the same size foot. Maybe she has a few of his jackets too. Whitaker’s hoodie is similarly falling apart, and the stitching on the cuffs of his jeans is fraying too. Before Cassie can dwell on it any longer, Whitaker looks up at her and nods. Cassie nods back, and the two exit out PTMC, leaving the chaos of the emergency department behind.
They arrive at Cassie’s car parked a few blocks away, and when she unlocks it, Whitaker slides into the passenger’s seat, setting his duffel bag on his lap. The drive home is almost completely quiet, save for the sounds of the other cars rushing by. Whitaker continues to fidget with the strings of his tattered hoodie. About five minutes into the drive, Whitaker clenches his jaw so hard Cassie can see it out of the corner of her eye. When she glances over at him, Whitaker’s eyes are still downcast, red around the edges.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, after clearing his throat.
“Of course,” she replies, and the rest of the drive passes in silence.
—
The two arrive at Cassie’s apartment nearly twenty minutes later, thanks to a crash on Parkway East, which she prays doesn’t get diverted to PTMC. They’re busy enough as is.
As soon as Cassie steps through her front door, she can feel her whole body relax. Whitaker follows close behind her, glancing over Cassie’s shoulder to take in the apartment. She’s suddenly a little insecure about Harrison’s action figures strewn across the carpet and his homework resting on the dining table. Other than that, her apartment is relatively clean, albeit not very decorated. She’s got pictures of her and Harrison hanging around, and a few paintings she picked up at thrift stores in an attempt to make the apartment feel more homey. She can feel Whitaker shifting behind her, clearly unsure of what to say and where to go, so Cassie turns to face him.
“Are you hungry? I’ve got that leftover chili, but if you don’t like that, then I can make you a sandwich.”
Whitaker quickly shakes his head.
“No, um… chili sounds good. Thank you.”
Before she can turn around and grab the chili out of the fridge, Whitaker speaks again.
“You really don’t have to do this, Dr. McKay. I can find a shelter that’ll take me for the night. And if not, I can figure out something else-”
Cassie shoots Whitaker her best, motherly absolutley not look, which gets him to quiet down. She sighs and nods towards the couch. While Whitaker sits down, Cassie grabs the chili out of the fridge, makes two bowls, and pops them in the microwave before crossing the apartment to sit next to Whitaker.
“Look, kid, I’m not going to let you do that. You’re a med student. You know the risks associated with sleeping outside in cold weather. I have no problem with letting you stay here until we figure out something more permanent, okay? When I was a little older than you, I was in a very similar situation.”
Whitaker seems surprised at that, his eyes widening every so slightly. Cassie really didn’t like revealing that part of her past, especially to coworkers, but it’s an in. Something she needs to connect with Whitaker, so she continues.
“I stayed on a friend’s couch for a while. Then shelters. Then the Eliza Trail encampment. It was hard. But I got back on my feet because I accepted help from a friend. She let me stay with her and helped me get into rehab. It’s because of her that I still get partial custody of my son. I know it’s hard. And I know it’s even harder to accept help. But leaning on someone else is so important. If it helped me, it can help you. But you have to let me help, kid.”
That seems to be what finally gets through to Whitaker, even if only by a little bit. His body relaxes further into the couch, and he unclenches his jaw, which Cassie takes as a win. She knows he’s hardwired to act like this. However many years of existing by himself have taught Whitaker to be self-reliant, but Cassie also knows she can break through to him. He just needs a roof over his head, real food to eat, and someone to lean on, and Cassie can provide all of that.
As if on cue, the microwave beeps, and Cassie retrieves two steaming bowls of chili. When she hands Whitaker his bowl, he seems hesitant to eat, but as soon as she takes a bite, he follows.
“You make really good chili.”
“Thank you.”
“No, really,” he insists, “This is like… the best chili I’ve ever had, I think. My mom used to make it. When I was little, we used to have it with cinnamon rolls.”
Cassie can’t help but scrunch her nose at that, letting out a small laugh.
“Cinnamon rolls?”
Whitaker smiles, for the first time all evening, Cassie notes, and nods.
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it. I guess it’s a Nebraska thing. It’s really good.”
“Do you, like… dip them in the chili?”
“No! No, they’re for after,” Whitaker laughs, grinning down at his bowl, “It’s like a sweet and savory thing, I guess.”
“I have Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in the fridge. I’m sure they’re not as good as your mom's, but if I put them in now, they’ll probably be done by the time we’re done,” Cassie offers, already moving to put them in the oven. Technically, the cinnamon rolls are for Harrison when he comes over on weekends, but Cassie can always buy another. And, she couldn’t possibly ignore the way the offer made Whitaker’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree.
Eighteen minutes later, both bowls of chili are scraped to the bottom, and the cinnamon rolls are out of the oven. It’s late, nearing eleven, and Cassie really, really wants to go to bed. But instead, she plates up a cinnamon roll for Whitaker, then one for herself, and watches as he sinks his teeth into the dessert, his face instantly lighting up.
“It’s good, right?”
It is good, surprisingly. The icing sticks to her fingers, sickly sweet, and Cassie can’t help but smile. Cinnamon rolls always remind her of Sunday mornings with her dad. He used to make her cinnamon rolls every weekend, and Cassie’s attempting to pass the tradition down to Harrison. She’s doing a shit job of it by giving Harrison’s cinnamon rolls away to Whitaker, but the kid looks like he needs a taste of home. Cassie confirms through a mouthful of cinnamon roll, and Whitaker grins again.
“So, Nebraska? That’s a long way from Pennsylvania. How’d you get all the way out here?”
Whitaker shrugs at the question, taking another bite. Cassie has a feeling it’s to avoid answering the question, even if only for a few moments. She can see him thinking as he chews, and he swallows his bite before speaking up.
“Med school. I got a scholarship for the University of Pittsburgh, and I wanted to go out of state,” He answers, stiff and practiced, like it’s what he tells everyone when they ask.
“Home life not for you, huh?”
“No. My parents own a farm, and I… didn’t want to do that for the rest of my life.”
Cassie nods, setting aside her half-finished cinnamon roll and pulling up her knees to sit more comfortably.
“You got any family out here?”
“No. They’re all in Broken Bow.”
Whitaker sounds a little sad when he says it, and Cassie feels her heart lurch. It makes sense. Cassie knows firsthand how expensive med school is. That, on top of groceries and bills. No family to stay with. It’s no wonder Whitaker ended up where he did. Cassie’s just glad she found him when she did. She doesn’t want to think about how long Whitaker was living like that. She doesn’t want to know when the last time he ate a whole meal was, either. Cassie pictures Harrison, despite her best effort not to. Harrison, curled up in a shelter, shivering beneath a too-thin blanket. Harrison, thousands of miles away, surviving off of dollar-store ramen and stolen sandwiches. God, the thought of it makes her sick. She wonders how much Whitaker’s mother knows about his situation. Does she know he’s resorted to illegally squatting? Does she care? There’s clearly a rift between Whitaker and his family. If they were close and he was facing homelessness, he would’ve moved back home.
“What are they like?” she asks, and Whitaker tenses at that.
Cassie internally curses herself for pushing too far. Just when she’s going to walk it back and apologize, Whitaker sets aside his cinnamon roll and begins speaking.
“I don’t know. They’re alright. I’ve got my parents and then three older brothers. We just don’t really get along. It’s not like they hit me or anything. I was just… different. And I think all of them could see that long before I could.”
Cassie nods at that, keeping her eyes on Whitaker’s. They’re not welling up with tears anymore, but they’re still stuck in that permanent, sorrowful state. Cassie can’t really sympathize with the whole older brother thing, being an only child herself, but she’s felt different before. She felt out of place throughout med school, being the oldest in all of her classes by far, juggling taking care of a kid on top of homework and exams. It must be even harder for Whitaker, being so far away from home. Cassie briefly wonders if he made any friends in school, but then she remembers that he was sleeping in an abandoned medical wing rather than crashing with someone. That thought stings a little too much, so she pushes it away.
“Do you call them often?”
“Not really. At Christmas, sometimes.”
Neither of them are quite sure what to say after that, so after a few minutes of silence, Cassie stands up, taking Whitaker’s plate and placing it down in the already-full sink. After much back and forth with Whitaker, and insisting over and over No, you don’t need to help with the dishes, Cassie gathers up a few spare blankets for them, draping them over the back of the couch.
“There’s extra blankets in the closet if you need them. First door from the right.”
Whitaker nods, and sits down on the couch. Cassie finds herself hoping it’s comfortable enough for him. She’s sure it’s better than most shelter beds, and it’s definitely better than a hospital bed, but still. He deserves comfort.
“Okay,” she says, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Cassie turns, but just before she can enter her bedroom, and collapse into her bed, Whitaker speaks again.
“Um, Dr. McKay?” He calls, continuing when Cassie turns to face him, “Thank you. Again. I, um…. I really don’t know what to say. Just thank you.”
Cassie doesn’t say what she really wants to. She doesn’t tell Whitaker that if she let him sleep on a bench tonight, she would never forgive herself. She doesn’t tell him that he looks too much like her son. She doesn’t tell him that if Harrison was in his position, she would want someone to take care of him like this. And she especially doesn’t tell him that she has to, because more worryingly than seeing her son in Whitaker, she sees herself in him. She sees herself in his shaky hands. She sees herself in the way he needs to constantly keep himself fidgeting. She sees herself in his sad eyes, and she sees herself in the way he can never receive without needing to give something in return. Cassie can’t tell Whitaker this though, so she settles for giving him a soft smile.
“Of course, kiddo. Wake me up if you need anything, yeah?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Whitaker.”
“Goodnight.”