I carried the drawing in my chest pocket for the rest of the night.
Not because I was afraid to lose it, but because it felt like it *belonged* there—like it was a fragment of something sacred. A sketch of a man without a face, left behind by a girl who wasn't giving up, even if the world had already written her off.
Room 418 stayed with me. Her name was Camila. I learned that from the chart later. She had lymphoma and eyes that had already outlived a thousand lifetimes. She wasn't dramatic or poetic. Just quiet. Present. Sharp as a needle. She reminded me of Everett, if Everett ever learned how to smile without regret behind it.
The next morning, I ran into Everett in the utility room. He was coiling a hose like it was a ritual, slow and deliberate. I waited until he finished before speaking.
"Someone saw you," I said.
He looked at me, brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"
I pulled the drawing from my pocket and held it out.
"She's in 418," I said. "She said you fixed her IV pump. Said you were the only one who stopped."
He took the paper, holding it like it might dissolve. His fingers brushed over the lines—the mop, the hallway, the shadow that looked like him.
Everett said nothing for a long moment. Then he whispered, "She got it right."
"She asked if people can save lives without knowing it," I told him. "I said yes. That the best ones do it quietly."
His shoulders tensed. But his eyes… softened.
"I'll check on her," he said.
And I knew he didn't mean tonight. He meant from now on.
---
Later that afternoon, I passed by Trevor, who was mopping near pediatrics and humming something I couldn't place.
"You ever think about what people see when they look at us?" I asked him.
He blinked. "You mean like… staff or people?"
"Both," I said. "Like, do they see what we *do*, or who we *are*?"
He leaned on his mop and thought about it for a second.
"I think some people only see messes," he said. "But the good ones? They see the ones cleaning them up."
I smiled. "That was oddly profound."
Trevor grinned. "Yeah. I practiced that one in the mirror this morning."
---
The end of my shift came and went. I didn't leave right away.
Instead, I walked to Room 418. The lights were dim. Camila was sketching again.
"Back for more wandering?" she asked.
"Back to return something," I said, and handed her the drawing.
She looked confused.
"I gave it to you."
"I know," I said. "But I think it was meant for both of us."
She looked at it again, and something in her expression cracked. Not sadness. Not fear. Just… relief.
"I don't know if I'm going to make it," she said softly.
"You will," I replied. "But not just because of treatment."
She looked at me.
"You've got a whole team rooting for you," I said. "Even the ones who don't say much."
Her eyes welled, but she blinked them dry.
"I think I'll draw you next," she said.
I laughed. "Why me?"
"Because you're the kind of person who stays when they don't have to."
---
That night, I left the hospital a little later, a little fuller.
And for the first time in weeks, I felt like I was *seen*—not just by her, but by the world I'd been quietly showing up for.
We were all carrying something.
But for once, it felt like we were carrying it together.