The night shift changes what you know about the sun. For twelve years now, daylight has felt borrowed, a strange currency I spend between sleep and the next shift.
Last week a new hire on her first night saw me pull a disposable camera from my locker. She asked what I was saving with only three shots left.
I didn't know how to tell her it's the small things. The way an empty hallway looks at three in the morning. The first pink line of sunrise through a broken blind.
My wife used to leave me notes on the dash of the truck. 'Don't forget to eat.' 'I'll leave the porch light on.' The divorce papers came six months ago.
I take pictures of things she would have smiled at. The janitor's closet door I repainted sky blue. A single dandelion growing through the asphalt by the dumpster.
Three shots left. I think I'll save one for when the new hire finally smiles without that scared look.
The night shift teaches you that some battles happen in silence, between four walls, with no one watching. But someone always sees the camera.