The GPS says I've arrived, but this can't be right. I sit in my idling Honda Civic, staring at what used to be Harborview Community Clinic. The cheerful yellow paint has faded to something closer to jaundice. Half the letters on the sign are missing—it now reads "H_RB_RVIEW C_M_UNITY CLI_IC" like a sad game of hangman. The parking lot has maybe three cars, and one of them is sitting on cinder blocks. Ten years. I've been gone ten years, and this is what's become of the place that once saved my mother's life. My phone buzzes. Another text from the hospital in Seattle: *Dr. Chen, please reconsider. We can discuss modified hours.* I delete it without responding. There's nothing to discuss. After seventy-two hours straight in the ER during that multi-vehicle pileup, I'd finally snapped. I didn't just walk out—I threw my badge at the chief of staff and told him exactly where he could file his "modified hours." Not my finest moment. But also, somehow, the most honest thing I'd done in years. I'm about to drive away when the clinic door opens. A man steps out, and my breath catches. Ethan. Even from here, even after a decade, I'd know that silhouette anywhere. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with that careful deliberation that made him such a good doctor. He's talking to an elderly woman, his hand gentle on her elbow as he helps her down the steps. The handrail is wrapped in duct tape. He looks tired. No—tired doesn't cover it. He looks like I felt three weeks ago, right before I broke. The woman shuffles toward an ancient Buick, and Ethan watches until she's safely inside. Then he turns, and for one heart-stopping second, I think he's looking directly at me. But he's just surveying the street, his expression unreadable, before heading back inside. I should leave. I should absolutely leave. Instead, I find myself pulling into the parking lot. The lobby smells like antiseptic and something else—mold, maybe, or just old building decay. The waiting room chairs are patched with medical tape. A teenage girl sits in the corner, cradling her wrist. A mother bounces a feverish toddler. An old man reads a newspaper from 2023. The receptionist looks up. She's new—I don't recognize her. "Can I help you?" "I'm here about the nursing position." It's a lie. I saw the posting online three days ago while doom-scrolling in a Motel 6. They're looking for a temporary nurse, minimum six-month commitment. I'm not a nurse. I'm a board-certified emergency medicine physician with a decade of experience and a freshly torched career. But Dr. Ethan Martinez can never know that Dr. Sarah Chen has come crawling back to Clearwater Cove. The receptionist's face lights up. "Oh thank God. Hold on." She practically runs down the hallway. "Dr. Martinez! The nurse applicant is here!" I have approximately thirty seconds to decide if I'm really doing this. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Ethan appears in the doorway to the back offices, and our eyes meet for the first time in ten years. Nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition. I've changed that much. Lost twenty pounds from stress, cut my hair short, traded contacts for glasses. Or maybe he's just forgotten what I look like. Maybe I was that easy to erase. "Sarah Chen?" He glances at a paper in his hand—the resume I submitted under my real name but with carefully edited credentials. "Yes." My voice sounds steady. Good. "You have experience in emergency medicine?" "As a nurse, yes." The lie tastes bitter. "Five years." "Why Clearwater Cove?" Because my sister is trying to destroy you, and I need to figure out why. "I needed a change," I say instead. "Quieter pace." He studies me for a long moment, and I'm certain he knows. But then he just nods, exhausted. "Can you start tomorrow?"