“You look like death warmed over,” Carol says to me as I walk into the lobby of the emergency room. “What happened to you?”

It’s been a lot of sleepless nights with my couch drug up against the door of my apartment. A lot of pacing around waiting for something to happen. A lot of trying to hold my shit together and showing up to work with a smile on my face and a skip in my step. Gallons of coffee and stale doughnuts and anything to take the edge off of how I feel. I even splurged on a couple of bottles of cheap vodka to try and numb whatever this feeling is inside of me, but the reality is, I am already numb. I’m just going through the motions.

Apparently today was the day when everything hits me all at once and I can’t hold it in any longer. Everything in my life is just plain sad. Even this place, this place that I once wanted to revolve my life around just looks sad, gray, dismal. Where I used to see my role at giving people another chance at living, I feel like there’s just no point anymore.

“Somebody dropped this off for you this morning,” she says, handing me my uncharged cellphone. “Not sure who; I wasn’t working yet when they stopped by.”

I shrug and slip it in my pocket. I don’t want to talk to anyone anyway. Nobody who I care about wants to talk to me, either.

“Sloan, what is your malfunction today?” she snaps.

I feel like now is when I’m supposed to cry.

But I don’t. I just stare at her like she’s an alien or something and I can’t comprehend the words coming out of her mouth.

“There’s lasagna in the breakroom,” she says, trying to be kind.

“Oh fuck off,” I yell, turning and running down the hall. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at pasta the same way again. I know I’m being completely irrational right now, but I am overwhelmed.

“What? Did you just find out you’re allergic to gluten or something?” she calls after me. “Sloan! Come back here, honey. You need to talk to me.”

I pull the stack of papers out of the office with the patients whose rehab plans I need to check in on for the afternoon. Mr. Patrick Hoffman. The ladder guy. Fell down and broke his hip and punctured his lung. I’m assuming he’s heavily sedated right now, according to his file. He sounds like the perfect patient for me to spend some time with today.

I knock softly before stepping into his room. He’s an older gentleman, and his gray-haired wife sits next to his sleeping body, her hand on top of his.

Ugh, I think. I don’t have the stomach for classic love stories right now.

“Mrs. Hoffman?” I ask.

“Are you the nice doctor who helped my husband yesterday?” She’s smiling at me, her thin lips stretched across perfectly white dentures.

“Hold on a minute,” I say, staring up at the TV on the wall. The local news is on. Across the bottom of the screen reads “State Prison Escapee Apprehended in Tijuana.”

I only catch bits and pieces, my mind racing so fast. I watch the photos of a man I barely recognize in handcuffs, the smiling faces of the Policia Federal standing outside of some shady-looking nightclub, words like extradition and evading sentences, drug trafficking, and Arthur Fenton.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I say to the woman. “I’ll be right back.”

I should be joyful. I should feel relieved, but I feel nothing at all. Once again, Arthur has ruined my life, and this time he didn’t even have to lay a finger on me. He took away everything important to me, took away everything good, and dragged me right back to where I belong. He might be behind bars, but I will always be trapped in this hell he helped me create for myself.