Chapter Text
The abandoned wing always woke before Dennis did. The pipes rattled somewhere deep in the walls, the vents groaned, and the cracked ceiling tiles trembled whenever the main building’s heating system kicked on two floors away.
It was the kind of place that should’ve felt haunted.
But Dennis had lived here long enough to know the ghosts were just drafts and old wiring.
He blinked awake to the thin, watery light leaking through the broken blinds. It cut across his face in a pale stripe, illuminating the dust floating lazily in the air. His breath fogged faintly — the heating in this wing hadn’t worked in years — and he curled deeper into the thrift‑store blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
His body felt shaky and covered in an uncomfortable layer of sweat.
He knew what that meant.
Low blood sugar.
Again.
He lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. The water stains looked like continents on a map he’d memorized too well. He could trace every line, every crack, every place where the plaster had bubbled and peeled.
He’d been here long enough to know the ceiling better than he knew most people.
Finally, he forced himself upright. The old cot creaked under him — a thin metal frame with a mattress that had long since given up on being comfortable. His blanket slid off his shoulders and pooled around his waist.
The air was cold enough that his breath literally fogged.
He rubbed his hands together, trying to coax warmth into his fingers, then reached for the small cooler beside the cot.
The lid was cold as he opened it.
Inside, the insulin pens were lined up beside a selection of juice boxes he’d stolen from the food cart down in the Pitt. Without hesitation, he reached for the fruit punch flavor and started drinking, already feeling his body regulating a tiny amount.
He stared at the insulin pens while he drank, jaw tightening.
He’d been rationing again.
He hated that word.
Rationing.
Like he was living through a war.
Like he was choosing which days he was allowed to stay alive.
But, the sad truth of it was, he didn’t have a choice. At the thought, he glanced around his room.
His “room” — if you could call it that — was barely bigger than a supply closet.
A cot.
A duffel bag.
A stack of textbooks.
A thrift‑store blanket.
A mug with a chipped rim that held various pens and highlighters.
A tiny sink with rust around the drain.
It wasn’t home.
But it was what he had.
He dressed quickly — scrubs, hoodie, sneakers with worn soles — and splashed cold water on his face from the sink. The mirror above it was cracked, splitting his reflection into jagged pieces.
He didn’t linger on it.
He never did.
He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and slipped out into the hallway. The abandoned wing was silent, the air stale and cold. Paint peeled from the walls in long strips. Old signage hung crooked. A wheelchair sat forgotten in a corner, one wheel missing.
He always walked fast through this part of the hospital.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he didn’t want anyone to see him coming from here.
He reached the main corridor and snuck through chairs just as the early patients started gathering in the waiting room. The hospital hummed to life — nurses chatting softly, carts rolling, monitors beeping in the distance.
Dennis blended into the flow of people easily.
He’d gotten good at that.
He ducked into the staff locker room, showered quickly, and changed into fresh scrubs. He checked his blood sugar again — still low, but manageable. He chewed a glucose tablet and forced himself to swallow even though his stomach twisted with nerves.
Today was going to be brutal.
He could feel it.
He stuffed his bag in one of the open lockers and headed toward the employee break room, hoping to snag a banana or something before rounds.
The lounge smelled like burnt coffee and stress. A few early‑morning zombies in scrubs were scattered around the room, clutching mugs like lifelines. Someone had left a box of stale donuts on the counter. Someone else had spilled creamer and not bothered to wipe it up.
Dennis’s stomach growled, but the thought of eating made him nauseous. Low blood sugar always did that — the cruel irony of needing food while your body rejected the idea of it.
He grabbed a banana anyway. He peeled it slowly, hands still a little shaky, and forced himself to take a bite. The sweetness hit his tongue like a punch. He chewed carefully, swallowing past the tightness in his throat.
He needed the carbs.
He needed the energy.
He needed to pretend he was fine.
He perched on the edge of a chair, checking the fanny pack around his waist out of habit. He always kept his fanny pack close. His supplies were inside — his meter, his pens, his glucose tablets. His lifelines. His secrets.
He checked the time on his phone.
5:42 AM
Rounds started at six.
He had eighteen minutes to pull himself together.
He took another bite of the banana, slower this time, and let his eyes drift around the room. Everyone looked exhausted. Everyone looked stressed. Everyone looked like they were barely holding it together.
It should’ve made him feel less alone.
It didn’t.
He rubbed his thumb against the edge of his table, grounding himself in the familiar weight of it. The room felt too warm, too bright, too loud. His heart thudded a little too fast. His blood sugar was rising, but not fast enough.
He needed to eat more.
He needed to rest.
He needed to stop living in a condemned wing of the hospital.
But he didn’t have options.
He didn’t have money.
He didn’t have family.
He didn’t have a safety net.
He had a cot, a cooler, and a handful of insulin pens he was stretching too far.
He swallowed hard.
He could get through today.
He had to.
He took a deep breath.
He could do this.
He stepped out of the lounge and into the hallway, joining the flow of residents heading toward the center of the Pitt for morning rounds. The hospital buzzed around him — nurses calling out updates, the distant rumble of a gurney being wheeled down the corridor.
He blended in easily.
He always did.
He kept his head down, his pace steady, his breathing even.
No one looked at him too closely.
And that was fine. That was how he liked it.
That was safe.
That was how he survived.
He reached the nurses station and leaned against the counter, trying to steady himself without being too obvious. Well, until... Santos.
“Huckleberry!”
He turned.
Trinity jogged up to him, hair in a messy bun, stethoscope bouncing against her chest. She looked frazzled, caffeinated, and entirely too awake for this hour.
“You look like shit,” she said with a chuckle, slightly breathless.
Dennis managed a small smile and an eye roll. “Nice to see you too, Trin.”
“Always a pleasure, Fuckleberry,” she teased, then paused and really looked at Dennis. “Dude, you look like you’re about to pass out.”
His stomach tightened.
He didn’t want her sticking with him.
He didn’t want anyone watching him too closely.
He didn’t want anyone noticing the tremor in his hands or the way he excessively leaned on the nurses' station when he thought no one was looking.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Trinity raised an eyebrow. “You always say that.”
“And it’s always true.”
She snorted. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Trinity bumped her shoulder against his. “Seriously. If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
His chest tightened.
He wished he could.
He wished he could tell her everything.
He wished he could say, I’m scared.
I’m running out of insulin.
I’m living in a condemned wing of the hospital.
I’m one bad day away from ending up in the ER as a patient instead of a resident.
But he couldn’t.
He’d learned the hard way that telling people the truth didn’t make things better.
It just made them leave.
He forced a smile — small, practiced, convincing. “I’m okay.”
And he would be okay... he just needed to survive another day.