Aria

The breakroom smelled like burnt coffee, antiseptic, and overworked dreams.

A cheap clock ticked over the hum of photocopier machines, and someone was softly snoring on the vinyl couch. And a few keyboards were clacking frantically.

My legs ached beneath my scrubs, and my lower back felt like it had been punished for merely existing. Still, the brief break before afternoon rounds felt almost luxurious.

Candace, one of the other interns, stretched beside me, her ponytail swishing. "So ...