Page 1 of The Back Forty (Whitewood Creek Farm #5)

“They said you need to quit your job.”

“W-what?” The word tumbles out as I snap out of whatever drug-induced haze I’ve been lost in. I jolt upright, and the IV in my arm nearly yanks free with the movement. The sharp tug makes me wince and tears sting the corners of my eyes as I try to figure out where I am and who's talking.

Blinking hard, I rub my face and try to focus until my older sister, Catalina, comes into view.

Her dark brown hair is slicked back into that impossibly tight bun she always wears tucked under a maroon surgical cap.

Her forest green scrubs are pressed and spotless as she sits stiffly at the end of my hospital bed like she's afraid to touch me.

All cold, cutting, business. Not a shred of warmth in her tone or demeanor.

She stands abruptly and wipes her hands on her pants as though she needs to keep them busy.

“Oh, good. You’re awake now. I thought that might get you back.”

“What’s going on?” My voice comes out hoarse and raw from dehydration.

“Doctor Orion said you had a small stroke.”

“A… a what?” The disbelief cracks my voice because the words that she's saying aren't making any sense.

I lurch upright again and this time the IV tape tears at my skin harder, earning a hiss of pain and a flop backward onto the bed. I hate these things.

Catalina’s face changes just for a second, and I catch something that might almost be pity in her eyes. Not that she’d ever admit it. Catalina doesn’t do pity, or emotions for that matter. You don't get to when you're the oldest daughter of the family and a high performing surgeon.

“Stress-induced, they said. Your blood pressure is through the roof.” She reaches up like she’s going to rake her fingers through her hair, then seems to remember the cap and lets her hand fall limply and awkwardly to her side.

We’d never been all that close. Well, that’s not entirely true.

When we were younger, we’d been inseparable.

But as we got older, the emotional and physical gap widened.

Catalina left for medical school in another state and practically disappeared into her studies for eight years while I stayed back in California where we grew up.

She only recently moved back to our hometown after landing some fancy position as a cardiothoracic surgeon at the hospital that I must be sitting in.

The distance between us now feels so much bigger than our six year age gap.

Our careers and circles are different, but our priorities remain the same: Work as hard as possible to make our immigrant parents proud.

“Look, Daniela,” she says carefully, as though testing the words before they leave her mouth, “you need to find a way to calm the fuck down before you kill yourself.”

“Calm down...” I whisper the words because, coming from her—a self-professed workaholic who doesn’t know what a vacation is and probably considers sleeping eight hours at night a personal failure—that’s fucking rich.

“I’m not quitting my job,” I blurt out quickly, panic rising in my chest. The monitors start beeping loudly which only makes my anxiety rise.

She shrugs like the conversation is done. “Fine. But you’ll regret it when you’re dead. Oh wait, you'll be unable to since you'll be six feet under. And just like that, she spins on her heel and walks out of the room, leaving me gaping at the closed door part in shock and part confused.

My thoughts spiral. What am I going to do? How did I let this happen? What will our parents think when they find out?

The answers don't come, but the guilt does. Heavy and suffocating, it presses down, whispering things I don’t want to hear.

I shove the thoughts away the only way I know how by blaming myself.

That’s always been my default because I'm sure it's some personal failure that has me hooked up to an IV at my sister's hospital right now.

A few minutes into my spiral, the door creaks open and Doctor Orion steps in.

He’s older, maybe late sixties with kind eyes and a steady presence that somehow makes me feel even smaller in my hospital gown.

Catalina has mentioned him before, usually in passing at holidays when she updates our parents on all the miraculous, lifesaving things she’s doing.

I think she said he was the best in the hospital.

And now I can’t help but wonder if she pulled strings to get him assigned to me.

It would be just like her, slice me open with the news that I’m dying in that clinical, emotionless voice of hers, then turn around and make sure I get the best possible care.

Because, apparently, she still secretly gives a damn.

I decide to find and thank her when I get out of here.

“Good evening, Daniela, I’m Doctor Orion,” he says with a soft smile.

"Dani's fine. Hi Doctor Orion." It's the nickname that everyone uses for me affectionately, except Catalina or my parents when they're mad.

He pulls up a chair and takes a seat next to my bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” I lie because I feel like shit. I have a raging migraine, probably from caffeine withdrawals, and the IV port is tugging at my skin painfully.

His smile twitches like he knows better. “I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. Now, I’m sure Catalina already told you what happened, but do you have any questions for me?”

“Um… I don’t know why I’m here. The last thing I remember is giving a presentation at the downtown San Jose conference building, and then… nothing.”

He nods, hands clasped in his lap in front of him.

“Yes. Unfortunately, you suffered a stroke during that presentation. It’s becoming more common in young professionals with high-stress careers.

Your blood pressure was dangerously elevated when you came to see us.

It's lucky that the ambulance was called in time.”

I wet my lips, trying to ignore the rising panic that's clawing at my chest. “That’s… not good, right?”

“No,” he says gently, shaking his head. “It’s not good at all.”

“Oh… okay. So, what do I do now?”

His expression softens, like he’s delivered this speech a hundred times and knows it by heart. “Lifestyle changes. Healthier eating, regular exercise, managing your stress better. And, most importantly, avoiding the things that caused this in the first place.”

The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and inescapable. “And if I don’t?” I hate that I’m asking but I need to hear him say it.

“Having a stroke makes you significantly more susceptible to another one. Your chances are increased by about 25% now.”

The number hangs in the air, sharp and undeniable.

Twenty-five percent more likely to have it happen again.

I know all about numbers. I can quote the percentages for all the tech products I sell like the back of my hand. And 25% of anything, is a lot.

“Oh… wow.”

So, that's why Catalina told me I needed to quit my job. She knows better than anyone, just like my younger sister Isla does, the demands and pressure of my career. They’ve seen the way I complain about my job in our sisters-only group chat, the one we’ve had for the past decade.

I’ve been spilling the truth there for years: my job is stressful.

Okay, that’s an understatement and I live and breathe it.

Somewhere along the way it's become so engrained in my life that sometimes I can't tell where it stops, and I begin.

It’s hell. But I love it.

I work in tech sales in the heart of Silicon Valley, where competition is cutthroat, the technology evolves faster than I can blink, and I’m just one salesperson clawing my way through a sea of sharks trying to make it.

Goals are constant moving targets, and when you think you're at the top, someone else lands a big sale, and you're knocked right down to the bottom again.

Sure, it’s not the prestigious medical career that my parents practically throw parades over for Catalina, or the flexible, brainy city engineering job Isla has with the city of Raleigh.

But it’s mine. My thing. The one thing I’ve ever truly been good at: talking, convincing, projecting confidence that I don’t always feel, pitching ideas, proposing solutions, and most importantly, closing deals.

It's a total middle child job. We're overlooked, left to parent ourselves and thus became great at dark humor, loud talking for attention and convincing people to see us. To hear us. To notice us.

And yeah, maybe my drug of choice is caffeine—okay, not maybe, it absolutely is.

Energy drinks, coffee and some more coffee after that.

It doesn’t stop at noon. Hell, sometimes it doesn’t stop at 2 o’clock in the morning either.

And, sure, maybe now I have a prescription for Xanax because panic attacks have become my new normal, but I’ve been having those since college.

It’s just part of the package deal when you’re a Type-A, middle child of two immigrant parents from El Salvador.

The expectations are skyscraper-high, the excuses are zero, and you work yourself into the ground or, apparently, into a hospital bed.

Dr. Orion’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “So, what changes do you think you’ll be able to make in the near term?”

“Um…” I shift awkwardly. “I guess I should probably cut back on caffeine consumption?”

He nods; his pen poised over his clipboard. “And how much do you typically consume in a day?”

I do the mental math, or try to and come up empty.

“Say… three cups?” he asks.

I let out a laugh-snort that’s more confession than humor. “No. Probably closer to ten.” And even that feels like I’m rounding down by at least five.

His eyes widen, before he slowly moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his tone shifting to something gentler.

“Dani, I’m speaking to you as someone who cares and because your sister is one of the brightest surgeons we have employed here.

I know she wants you to live a fulfilling life, but you won't be able to at the rate you're going now. If you need support cutting back on caffeine, we can help. We have programs for that.”

God. It’s not like I’m a junkie.

Okay… but maybe I kind of am.

Dammit this is way more serious than I realized.

I twist the corner of the hospital blanket in my hands, knotting and unknotting it like it’ll somehow stop my heart from racing. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ve quit before. I can do it again.”

Which is true. What I won’t be fine about is the bigger thing. The thing I know I must do but don’t want to admit yet.

My phone vibrates on the tray table beside me, and when I glance down, my little sister Isla’s face fills the screen before disappearing, replaced by a text. It’s a single crying emoji and a message:

Isla : I love you so much. Please take care of yourself. Catalina told me what happened. I can’t lose you. Come visit North Carolina. You can stay with me as long as you'd like and we can find you a job here. Whitewood Creek is a small town, but it’d be the perfect place for your restart!

My chest tightens. I know what I have to do now for my health.

“And your job?” Dr. Orion asks, breaking into my thoughts. “It’s a source of stress for you, right?”

I blow out a long breath, the weight of it all pressing down. “Yes,” I admit quietly. And my relationship and the way that the two have become completely intertwined.

I’ll quit. I'll break-up with my boyfriend. I’ll do something completely different. For the first time, it hits me just how serious this is, how much I’ve let my job, my ambition, and my desperation to achieve and please people consume me. How reckless I’ve been with this one life I’ve been given.

I’ll figure it out, even if that means moving to the middle of nowhere in North Carolina to live with Isla while I do.