My shift ended at seven. I was still in Room 414 at seven-forty-two, holding a man's hand while his breathing did that thing where it forgets what it's for.
No family came. The intake form said next of kin was an ex-wife in Tucson who hadn't returned the voicemail. So I stayed.
I didn't do anything heroic. I just sat there. I told him about the Mariners game I'd caught the tail end of, even though he was unconscious and I don't follow baseball.
When I finally signed out, the charge nurse said I should've clocked the overtime. I didn't. It felt like it would've made it smaller somehow, putting a number on it.
The rideshare driver who took me home was shutting down his app for the night. He asked if I'd had a long one. I said yeah. He nodded like that was enough.
I found a half-punched coffee loyalty card in my scrub pocket on the kitchen counter. Six stamps out of ten. I'll never finish it. The café closed in March.
But I keep it because it was in my pocket when he died. Like it was there too. Like it witnessed something, even though it's just a piece of cardboard with six little coffee cups on it.
I keep thinking about all the people who stay past when they're supposed to. The driver who took one more fare. The nurse who didn't clock out. Maybe that's what love looks like, most of the time. Just not leaving yet.