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Hank doesn’t realize he’s drifting off until his chin dips hard enough to wake him. The hallway light never really changes, humming in that steady, fluorescent way that makes time feel like it’s stalled out somewhere between midnight and morning.
He’s been sitting in the same plastic chair for how long? He doesn’t know at this point, but it's been long enough for the edge of the seat to dig into his thighs. Long enough for the stiffness in his shoulders to turn into a dull, constant ache, and long enough that the quiet outside Collie’s room has started to feel louder than gunfire.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s holding something fragile between them. His eyes keep drifting to the door, it's still closed with no visitors allowed. No movement, no voices, and no change. Just that little square window with the blinds half drawn like even the room itself doesn’t want to be seen.
Oroya fever. Before all this it was just something distant, something that just was transmitted by sand fly bites.
But because of one doctor alone deciding to play God it became airborne, and because of that it's in his lungs. And because of that it's killing Collie.
Hank exhales slowly through his nose, rubbing his face with both hands and dragging them down like he’s trying to pull himself back into his own skin. He hasn’t slept properly since Saint Louis, since the lab, since Jonah Battles, and since everything went sideways in ways that didn’t even make sense anymore.
They’d gotten the doctor out, but that's not really the point now is it? Sure that part had gone right, but somehow everything after that had gone haywire. He tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes again, just for a second, he needs this second.
That’s when something nudges his boot, it's not hard or aggressive. It's just there.
He opens one eye first, then the other, blinking up at a woman standing in front of him like she’s been there longer than she should have been.
"Hey," she says, casual as anything, like they’re not in a hospital that smells faintly of antiseptic and death. "You want a bad cup of coffee?"
Hank squints at her still halfway between being asleep. "That…honestly depends," he mutters, voice rough from lack of sleep. "How bad are we talking here?"
She tilts her head, considering for a second on this. "Let's see burnt, bitter, and possibly brewed yesterday in a sock."
He lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh. "Sounds about right."
"Good," she says, already stepping closer and hooking a thumb in the direction of the vending machines down the hall. "C’mon."
He doesn’t question it as much as he probably should be. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that sitting there hasn’t changed anything in hours, or maybe it’s just because her voice sounds…normal, not careful or hushed, just like everyone else in this place does for some reason or another.
She nudges his foot again, lighter this time. "Up you go, cowboy."
Hank huffs under his breath but lets her pull him to his feet anyway, his legs protest for a second before they remember how to work, and before he knows it he’s walking beside her, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
They move down the hallway at an easy pace. She doesn’t rush, doesn't tiptoe, just walks like hospitals are places people are supposed to move through not get stuck in.
"I’m here from New York," she says after a moment, like she’s picking up a conversation they never started. "Community sent me."
Hank glances sideways at her. "That so?"
"Yeah, moral support until his family gets here by helicopter." She lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. "He got bit bad like he lost three fingers bad, they took his hand off this morning because they didn't want to risk it."
Hank’s jaw tightens just a little. "And he made it on the helicopter ride over here?"
"Yea, he was smiling and joking the entire time until they sedated him and so far he's doing amazing," She says, firm. "He’s a stubborn bastard, so that helps."
"Yeah," Hank murmurs hoping Collie is a stubborn bastard about this one. "It usually does."
They reach the vending machines, the kind that buzz faintly and look like they’ve been restocked sometime in the last decade. Maybe we'll give them that. She steps up to it, already pulling something from around her neck.
"As for me," she continues, holding up her ID card and tapping it against the machine. "I’m in charge of a guard unit he works in, which sounds a lot more impressive than it feels most days."
The machine beeps, then hums, before reluctantly spits out two cups into the slot.
Hank watches the whole thing with a faint crease between his brows, then takes the cup she offers him. At least it's warm, that's something I guess.
He lifts it, sniffing once before immediately wincing. "You weren’t kidding about this stuff being bad."
"Told you," she says, taking a sip of her own.
It’s awful, which is exactly as it was advertised. They eventually turn away from the machine and start walking together again, slower this time, just drifting through the hall like neither of them have anywhere urgent to be for a few minutes.
After a couple steps she glances at him over the rim of her cup. "So," she says, casual but curious, "how do you know the guy in that room?"
Hank takes another sip of coffee like he needs it to buy himself a second, then he shrugs, simple as anything.
"I'm a Nomad."
She stops dead like actually stops mid step, one hand comes up to her chest in this exaggerated almost theatrical motion.
"No way," she says, eyes widening. "Really? Oh my god, can I have an autograph?"
Hank looks at her sees the edge of a grin she’s trying to hide, and something in his chest loosens just a fraction.
He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, really."
"Wow," she breathes, dragging the word out like it’s the most shocking thing she’s heard all day, the guys in her unit must react this way when hearing the word Nomads because she's way to good at it. "Which one are you? Alaska, Maine, Colorado, oh no wait New Mexico?"
He takes another step and she falls back into pace beside him.
"Oklahoma."
Then she snaps her fingers like something just clicked in her beautiful brain. "Oh! You’re that one."
Hank raises an eyebrow wondering what exactly that means. "That one?"
"The one who takes Verona Beach escorts on the scenic route through Oklahoma on the way to New Chicago," she says, nodding like she’s stating a well documented fact.
Hank stares at her for half a second wondering if she's serious or not, then his mouth twitches realizing she has to be joking right now.
"In my defense," he says slowly, "my scenic routes are very scenic."
"Oh, I know," she says immediately. "They call it the Oklahoma tour."
That does it for Hank, he stops walking this time turning his head to look at her fully, eyes narrowing just a little as he tries and I mean really tries not to laugh.
"They don't call it that."
She holds his gaze for exactly one second.
Then she breaks, laughing and shaking her head. "No, they don’t, but they should at least according to a certain someone named Patrick Smith or you might know him as Georgia?"
Hank exhales through his nose, a quiet chuckle slipping out anyway. "Yeah, well, please don't give him ideas, he can't name anything to save his life. He named his pet hamster, Ham Solo."
That makes her burst out laughing, as she nods because she knows well of Ham Solo. She runs around in her ball on the west gate after Patrick. Nearly tripping and killing guards in the process.
Eventually she calms down as they walk, she notices the tension in his shoulders is a little less tight now, a few seconds pass before she nudges the conversation forward again.
"So," she says, tilting her head slightly, "you would know about the Nomad currently rifling through the doctors lounge eating all the donuts?"
Hank doesn’t even hesitate.
"Let me guess dish water blond?" he asks. "Looks like a rat that went through the washing machine?"
She just nods, her lips pressed together like she’s trying not to laugh again.
"Yeah," Hank says, taking another sip of coffee. "That’d be Connecticut."
He glances ahead, then adds, quieter, "He’s newly engaged to the very sick South Dakota, I think some part of him blames himself for the accident, though he'd never admit that in a million years."
She nods, the humor softening into something more understanding. "Got it."
They walk in silence for a few steps after that, the weight of that statement settling in between them without making things heavy again.
Then she clears her throat lightly. "So what are you guys’ names?" she asks. "Or is that classified information? I got Georgia to crack by bribing him with my homemade Pernil."
Hank looks over at her to answer just as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her wallet before pulling out a small card, flipping it over and holding it out to him.
"Fair trade," she says.
He takes it, glancing down, it's a Puerto Rico license, he studies it for a second before handing it back.
"South Dakota is Collie Parker," he says. "Connecticut, the one currently committing crimes in the doctors lounge, is Gary Barkovitch."
He shifts the coffee cup in his hand.
"And I’m Hank Olson."
She smiles at that like it lands just right, as she tucks the license away back in her wallet before sticking out her hand.
"Clementine Lucia Reyes, but you saw that on my license."
Hank adjusts his grip and shakes it, firm but easy. "Clementine? Like the song?"
She grins, nodding. "You’re one of the rare few to ask."
They let go, falling back into step.
"I was here for medical school," she says after a moment. "Then the world ended, and that kind of changed the career path."
"Yeah," Hank says quietly. "It’ll do that."
"But to answer your question Henry," she adds, glancing at him with a small smile, "My name is after the song, not the orange."
He huffs a soft laugh. "Good to know, I was real worried your parents named you have a citrus, but just Hank only, my grandfather called me Henry."
They keep walking after that, around corners, past nurses’ stations, past rooms where people sleep or try to. The hospital feels less suffocating when he’s moving, when he’s not staring at that one door waiting for something he can’t control at the end of the day.
They talk about small things at first, routes, the weird ass weather this time of year, and places that don’t exist the way they used to like the big ball of twine. Clementine just has this way of speaking that fills space without overwhelming it, like she knows exactly how much to say and when to let things breathe.
At some point, Hank realizes he’s not thinking about the clock anymore, then of course the intercom crackles overhead.
"Clementine Reyes, report to...."
She sighs, already slowing to a stop. "Well that's me, Oakley must be out of surgery and hitting on the nurses, so I have to save him from embarrassment and his wife making him sleep on the couch."
"Figured," Hank says.
She turns to face him, walking backward for a step or two. "Duty always calls, I really need a beeper at this rate."
"I might know a Nomad who could get you one."
"Yeah, tell him to radio me, channel twelve. I'm gonna guess that one is Alaska?"
Hank just nods, because it would in fact by Richie.
There’s a brief pause after that, it's not awkward, it's just…there.
Then she tilts her head, studying him for a second like she’s making a decision.
"So," she says, "How about dinner?"
Hank blinks, he lifts his left hand slightly just enough for the light to catch the ring on his finger. Clementine’s eyes flick to it, then back to his face.
"He, they, or she…?" she asks, completely unfazed.
"He," Hank says.
She nods once, like that’s all she needed to know.
"He can come too, I was thinking that Italian beef place just a couple blocks from that really cool bakery with the cow, and lobster for some reason."
Hank lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I’ll… run it by him."
"Do that, my treat."
She turns to go, already halfway down the hall, then suddenly stops, for a second Hank is confused on what's up even as she pivots back around, walking a few steps toward him with that same easy grin.
"I think they should call it the Hank Olson tour," she says, pointing at him lightly. "Has a better ring to it."
And then just like that she’s around the corner and disappearing into the hum of the hospital, while Hank stands there for a second, coffee in hand, watching the empty space she left behind.
Then he exhales, a real one this time, and shakes his head to himself, turning back toward the hallway where Collie’s room waits.
But something feels…different this time as he walks back, slower now, and sinks into the seat again, sure the plastic still digs into him, and the lights still buzz but as he lifts the cup and takes another sip of terrible coffee..
He finds himself smiling like a damn fool, despite everything, despite the fear sitting heavy in his chest, and despite the uncertainty clawing at the edges of his thoughts...
He's smiling because of her.