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Late afternoon light pours through The Pitt’s high windows, flooding some of the hallways gold where the fluorescents never quite reach.
The unit is in the interims between surges, with that elusive and tenuous calm. When people rush with intention, not fear and when conversations stretch long enough to feel personal before they inevitably get cut off.
Jack has just finished restocking his locker when Samira leans on the opposite bank, arms crossed and with her eyes narrowed at her phone. He looks at her a second, amused that even distractedly scrolling she seems to take pretty seriously.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
She looks up, and her face instantly transforms. “Uh nothing,” she tries, shaking her head as if fighting the thought. “Or possibly everything. All I know is that Javadi is about to make it your problem.”
Jack has no time to register that statement before a voice comes booming down the hall, bright and unapologetically loud.
“Samira,” Javadi calls, already moving closer with her phone held vertically, “I need you.”
Samira exhales through her nose. “I knew it.”
Javadi stops in front of them, grinning. She’s already filming, already mid idea.
“Okay. So. We’re doing a quick thing for the Pitt account. It’s harmless. Educational. Extremely algorithm friendly.”
Jack blinks. “The Pitt has an account?”
Samira gives him a look that says you’re ancient. “Yes.”
Javadi swings the camera toward Samira. “You’re starting it.”
Samira’s spine straightens, visibly preparing itself, her shoulders square as her eyes lock on the lens with an expression that is both a challenge and a warning.
“My boyfriend,” she says, clearly but slowly, “is going to show you 10 things in his go bag and you’re all going to appreciate it. Go, babe.”
She steps aside with a sharp, satisfied nod toward Jack, arms crossing again as she glares at the camera like it has a personal debt to pay.
Jack freezes. “…What?” he says.
Javadi is already cackling.
Jack looks between them. “I didn’t agree to—”
“You carry a go bag,” Javadi says. “This is educational.”
Samira tilts her head. “You do carry one.”
Jack exhales, defeated. “…Yes.”
“Great,” Javadi says. “Ten things. Go.”
The camera is on him now.
Jack Abbott, trauma doctor, man of experience, man who has faced death with steadier hands than this, steps into the frame clearing his throat.
He inhales deeply, the way he does before a difficult intubation, and approaches. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s how to operate under pressure... even when the pressure is apparently social media.
He grabs the canvas bag hanging off his shoulder, one he carries out of habit more than need, and opens it. “Okay, alright, ummm,” he says, clearing his throat. “This is my go bag. It’s literal. Not theoretical.”
Samira’s stare becomes more fierce, but the slightest flicker at the edge of her mouth gives her away.
Jack reaches in and pulls out the first item. “One. Extra socks. Dry socks matter more than you think. If you’re on your feet for twelve hours and something happens, blisters will ruin your day faster than anything else.”
Javadi leans closer to the phone and stage whispers, “King behavior.”
“Two. A headlamp. Not your phone light. A real one. Because sometimes you need both hands free and sometimes the power goes out.”
Javadi whispers again, “Hot.”
Jack continues, momentum building. “Three. Protein bars, but ones that you actually like. Not the ones you think you should like. The ones you’ll eat even when you’re exhausted and angry.”
Samira nods once, approving. Barely perceptible.
“Preach,” Javadi mutters.
“Four. A spare phone charger. Short cord. Durable. If you forget this, you deserve the inconvenience you’ll experience.”
Javadi laughs outright at that.
Jack reaches back into the bag. “Five. A compact first aid kit. Not the hospital stuff. Your own. Because you can’t always rely on supplies being where they should be.”
He pauses, glancing at the camera. “And because taking care of yourself is not optional.”
Samira’s expression softens just a fraction.
“Six," Jack says, retrieving a small stack of bills held together with a band. “Cash. Small denominations.”
Javidi’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s actually smart.”
Jack pulls out a folded piece of fabric next. “Seven. A clean shirt. Doesn’t matter what kind. The difference between feeling like a human being and feeling like you’re still in the midst of the chaos is sometimes just changing your shirt.”
He pauses, then adds, “That one’s from experience. Eight,” he says, taking out a little notebook. “Something to write down the ideas, a notebook and a pen that works. You’ll think you’ll remember things. You won’t.”
Samira lets out a quiet sound of agreement.
“Nine. Ibuprofen,” Jack says, raising the bottle. “Because the headache will arrive, and pretending it won’t isn't noble, I promise."
He digs into the bag one more time and pulls out a small, crumpled photo sheathed in plastic. He thinks about it for a beat, then raises it anyway. “Ten,” he says. “Something that reminds you why you show up. Doesn’t matter what it is. Matters that it’s there.”
There’s a short, surprising silence in the hall. Jack drops the photo, suddenly self conscious of the camera again. “That’s it.”
Javadi brings the phone down, smiling broadly. “Perfect. And the photo is that…?”
He nods.
She taps on a few things on the screen, already editing as she walks backward down the hall. “Jack Abbot the man you are. Absolutely perfect. Thank you, Dr. Abbott. Internet is going to eat that up. Especially that last part…”
She disappears around the corner, still laughing to herself, leaving Jack and Samira standing alone amid lockers and supply carts and the hum of the building.
Jack turns slowly toward Samira. “What just happened.”
She meets his gaze, eyes bright with barely contained amusement. “You just did a video trend.”
“A what.”
“A trend,” she repeats patiently. “People show what’s in their bags. Javadi thought it would be funny. And informative.”
He processes this for a moment. “Am I… on the internet now.”
“Yes.”
He exhales. “Okay.”
Samira tilts her head. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”
“I feel about ninety years old,” he admits. “But I trust you.”
Her smile softens. “It’s all in good fun. But uh… what was the photo about?”
He smiles and reaches in, handing it off to her.
“Jack?” Her voice is gentle. Curious. Not accusing.
He watches her reaction.
She really looks at the photo, slowly, as if it might shock him if she’s too quick. It’s frayed around the edges, creased once through the center. It’s of her laughing, caught in mid moment, hair tousled by the wind, eyes bright and unguarded. It’s a version of her that is allowed to exist because at one point she felt safe enough to forget herself for a minute.
Samira glances at the photo, then back up to him. “You’ve been holding onto this all along?”
Jack snorts, something taut unfurling inside his chest. “Yeah,” he says quietly. And then, after a beat, “I always have.”
She waits. He knows she will.
“It’s not about luck,” he continues. “Not superstition.” His jaw flexes. “It’s a reminder.”
“Of me?”
“Of coming back,” he corrects.
His voice is steady, but honest in a way that costs him something. “When things get loud. When I start thinking in straight lines and worst case scenarios.”
He taps his chest once. “I remember there’s someone on the other end of it. Someone who wants me breathing. In one piece.”
Samira’s eyes soften, glossy but unfallen.
“I look at it before I leave,” he says. “And when I can’t sleep on the days you don’t stay over. It reminds me not to be reckless. Not to take the shortcut… because being brave doesn’t mean being careless anymore.”
She crosses the space between them and presses the photo back into his hand, folding his fingers around it.
“Then keep it,” she whispers. “Come back to me every time.”
He nods in understanding and carefully puts it back into the same pocket it’s lived in.
She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Also, it’s possible it goes viral because of that alone. So don’t be surprised if someone mentions it to you.”
Jack stares at her. “Viral.”
“Maybe,” she says, shrugging. “You were very earnest. People like earnest.”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I showed my socks to the internet.”
“You showed them preparedness,” she corrects. “And boundaries. And emotional grounding.”
He looks at her, incredulous. “You’re spinning this.”
She smiles unapologetically. “A little.”
A pair of passing residents whisper as they look back, more knowing than seems possible. Jack feels a twinge of self consciousness, but it fades.
“I guess,” he says then, slowly, “if it helps people that’s a good thing.”
Samira rearranges the strap of his bag as it has twisted on his shoulder. The gesture is small but intimate none the less. “It was good,” she says quietly. “Everything you said.”
He meets her eyes. “You set me up.”
“I did,” she agrees. “And you handled it perfectly.”
They wait there as long as they dare, the building settling back into its customary rhythm around them. Somewhere down the hall, Javidi’s laugh echoes again, triumphant and already onto the next thing.
Jack chuckles softly back. “Next time,” he says, “you’re taking a turn in front of the camera.”
Samira arches an eyebrow. “I already did.”
He smiles, tired and fond. “Fair enough.”
They walk back toward the double doors together, side by side, Jack’s go bag slung over his shoulder the way it always has been, now holding a new story along with everything else.