Page 2 of The Devil May Care

I blink hard. Focus on the screen.

“Poor little guy,” someone murmurs about the dog.

Yeah. Same.

My phone buzzes in my lap.

Dr. Ellis:

Don’t forget to follow up with Mrs. Dempsey about Theo’s allergy shots.

Shit, I knew I’d forgotten something. Theo, the twenty-seven-pound pug, is in the office literally once a week. Just one more box I haven’t checked, one more task balancing on top of the pile of things I’ll be buried under if I stop moving. Except Dr. Ellis has three other techs. All of whom can make a phone call first thing Monday morning.

I don’t respond.

I close the message, but I don’t put the phone away. Instead, I open my banking app. Maybe to punish myself. Maybe to feel something. Maybe in an effort to motivate myself to actually listen to the speaker. I did pay to be here after all, and because ignoring the number has never helped me in the past.

The number hits like a slap. Lower than I thought. Again.

I tap over to my student loan balance. The silent monster in the back seat of every decision I make. That one’s still in the six figures. Still snarling like a starved coyote caught in a bear trap. Go to the best school around, they all said, take out loans. It’ll be easy to pay them off once you have your degree. The foster system has grants. You won’t need to borrow that much.

I swallow. My coffee’s gone cold.

Someone laughs again. I didn’t catch the joke.

I glance around the room—mostly women, mostly tired-looking. A few baby-faced students with perfect notes and bright eyes. I want to shake them. Or hug them. Or warn them to set boundaries, that without them compassion turns into a cage with a vacuum slowly sucking out all the air, and there’s no loan forgiveness for burnout.

I used to think I’d open my own clinic. Small. Gentle. Soft lighting, big floor pillows, calming colors. A space where anxious dogs could exist without being dragged or muzzled or told to be good when they were just scared. I swear a pair of oven mitts and a tongue depressor with spray cheese do more than gabapentin ever could.

That dream feels like someone else’s now. Someone brighter. Someone better funded. Someone who doesn’t eat microwave ramen noodles three nights a week and work twelve-hour shifts.

My knee bounces under the table. I press my hand down to stop it.

I want to go home.

I want to be someone who isn’t drowning all the time.

I want—

I don’t even know anymore.

I’m twenty-seven years old, and I live in a rented shoebox with three kinds of anxiety, a cat with an eyeball obsession, and one very vocal upstairs neighbor who enjoys impromptu karaoke at two am. The future was supposed to feel like a promise. Instead, it feels like a waiting room. Paperwork and tired bones and the gnawing sense that I’m living in a life that doesn’t quite fit. It’s not bad. It’s just… wrong. Like wearing shoes a half size too small. Like smiling when no one’s looking. Like wondering if that second chance you got as a kid was really a punishment, despite what the social worker said.

No one even glances in my direction when I step out of the conference room, desperate for a lungful of oxygen. The air in the hallway is just as stale as inside, but the lights aren’t quite as violently assaulting my retinas, so I’ll take it

The hallway carpet has a pattern like tangled veins. Red and gold over a sickly beige, stretching on forever. It probably looked regal on the design board. In person, it’s the kind of busy that has a migraine brewing behind the backs of my eyes. I focus on it anyway. It’s either that or scream and the latter tends to attract unwanted attention.

I walk without purpose. Without a destination. I just need to be away from the people and the buzz of fluorescent lights and the smell of coffee that tastes like punishment. The conference is still going—overlapping sessions, free pens on folding tables, industry jargon echoing off cheap walls. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t have the energy to pretend I care about cortisol.

I tell myself I’m just stretching my legs. Not quitting. Not unraveling. Just buying five minutes of air. Long enough for the caffeine to kick in.

There’s a window at the end of the corridor. Clouded glass, the view outside all HVAC units and washed-out sky. Still, I stand there. Let my shoulders drop a little. Let my lungs expand. I can’t tell if the tightnessin my chest is stress or something worse, but I’m getting used to not knowing the difference.

The elevator dings behind me, doors swishing open, and I glance over.

A few conference folks step out—laptop bags, name tags, glazed-over eyes. I should walk away. Go back to pituitary disorders and slides and stale coffee. But then… I see him. He’s leaning against the wall next to the elevator bank, arms folded. Not scrolling his phone. Not texting. Just… still. In a way that feels intentional.

He’s tall, dressed in black from collar to boots, with a coat too long for the weather and a face that’s all sharp lines and quiet threat. Unapproachable for reasons I cannot explain. He’s not threatening. Just…wrong. Like he doesn’t belong here, and the room hasn’t figured it out yet. Like the nights when I let myself take a gummy and swear I can see through the special effects to the green screens and sets on sitcom television.