The first rule of hospital janitorial training—according to Everett—is:
"Don't touch anything that smells like citrus and fear."
Jude ignored that rule in the first ten minutes.
He showed up at 6:59 a.m. wearing blue coveralls three sizes too big, a tool belt he definitely bought from a hardware store clearance rack, and a laminated badge that said "JANITOR TRAINEE – JUDE" in Comic Sans.
Trevor whispered, "We're doomed."
Everett simply handed Jude a mop and said,
"Start by listening to the floor."
Jude nodded solemnly.
Then leaned down and whispered to the tiles,
"If you're trying to tell me something, blink twice."
Everett assigned him the east wing bathrooms.
"Start simple," he said. "Surfaces. Stalls. Sanitize the touchpoints."
Jude saluted like they were going to war.
At 7:24 a.m., the fire alarm in the east wing triggered.
By 7:26, two nurses, a respiratory therapist, and one guy from radiology were all yelling:
"HOW DO YOU START A TOILET FIRE?!"
Jude stood frozen in the doorway of the men's restroom, a scorched rag in one hand and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol in the other.
Everett arrived calmly, surveyed the scene, and asked:
"Jude…?"
"I was trying to sanitize the seat!" Jude said defensively. "With 91% isopropyl and… a Zippo."
Everett pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Why—on God's shining tile—would you light a disinfectant?"
"I thought the fire would sterilize it faster!"
Trevor whispered, "He's not wrong."
Everett shot him a look.
Trevor backed away like a Roomba that hit a wall.
The fire was contained.
No real damage, just a burned toilet lid, one melted air freshener, and a patient who now refuses to sit without fireproof pants.
Everett didn't yell.
Didn't scold.
He just handed Jude a clean towel and said:
"Wipe it down. All of it. Slow. Precise. Own it."
Jude stared. "I just caused a minor war crime in a public restroom, and you want me to wipe it down?"
Everett nodded. "That's how you fix things. Not with fire. With presence."
For the rest of the morning, Jude kept quiet.
He scrubbed sinks.
Unclogged a toilet with a gloved hand and a look of betrayal.
Mopped the hallway with a strange, uncharacteristic focus.
At one point, he paused outside Room 204—Everett's favorite.
"Who's in here?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter," Everett said.
Then added:
"It's never about the name. It's about what kind of peace you leave behind when they open their eyes."
At noon, Jude found a folded towel on his cart.
Not his.
Not Everett's.
Just… there.
Perfectly square.
Tucked inside was a lollipop.
The wrapper read:
"For survivors of fire and foolishness."
He laughed out loud.
After lunch, Everett gave Jude his final task for the day:
"Polish the trauma bay floor."
Jude blinked. "You want me to mop… where all the chaos happens?"
"Yes."
"But… what if I mess it up?"
Everett leaned in, quiet.
"Then it's your floor to fix."
Jude took the task seriously.
He rolled the bucket in slowly.
Tested the mop head.
Checked for grit and air bubbles.
Then—finally—he moved.
Small strokes.
Straight lines.
No theatrics.
Just care.
Just… cleaning.
When he finished, he stepped back.
Trevor passed by and whistled. "Dang. That's actually kinda perfect."
"It is," Everett said from the doorway.
Then turned to Jude.
"You didn't try to impress anyone today."
"I was afraid to burn something."
"Exactly," Everett nodded. "Fear can teach. But humility can guide."
Jude looked down at the gleaming floor.
"Think I could do this for real?"
Everett didn't answer right away.
He walked to the cart, pulled out a folded towel, and handed it to him.
Inside was a laminated card.
"Custodial Apprentice – Level 2
You've officially cleaned up after yourself.
Now let's see if you can clean up after others—without setting anything on fire."
– E"