You can tell what kind of shift it's going to be by how Jude walks in.
Today?
He walked in like he was late for a music video shoot.
Coveralls: one sleeve rolled up.
Shoes: untied.
Badge: upside down, flapping proudly like a warning flag.
I, Trevor,y nodded toward his chest.
"Y'know your name's upside down, right?"
Jude looked down and grinned.
"Orientation is subjective, Trevor, my boy."
Everett passed by at that exact moment.
Didn't say a word.
Just rotated the mop in his hand once, like a silent disapproval spin, and kept walking.
That's when I knew today was gonna be long.
First assignment: floor support in the recovery hall.
I loaded my cart like usual. Neat. Organized. Quiet.
Jude, on the other hand, tried to strap a Bluetooth speaker to the mop handle "for ambiance."
"You don't get ambiance," I muttered.
"You're a trainee. You get a bucket and judgment."
It didn't take long before his mop handle got stuck in a wheelchair wheel.
Then he knocked over a hand sanitizer dispenser trying to untangle it.
Then somehow hit the call button for Room 302 with his elbow while apologizing to a wet floor sign.
The patient inside thought we were under attack.
"I'm gonna be real with you," I said, helping him restack the supplies. "How are you this bad at not touching things?"
"I'm kinetic," he replied, like that explained everything.
Everett appeared behind us—again, like a ghost who only manifests for mop-related disappointments.
"Jude," he said calmly, "try touching the space around the mess first. It'll teach you how not to become it."
Jude stared, then whispered,
"…I have no idea what that means."
I nodded. "Good. That's how it starts."
Later that morning, I found Jude in the supply closet, reorganizing towels by color.
"Since when do you care about symmetry?" I asked.
"Since Everett said 'fold with purpose.' I don't fully get it yet, but I think these towels do."
"Do the towels talk to you, Jude?"
He nodded solemnly.
"Only the beige ones. The green ones have attitude."
I sighed. "You scare me."
Around 10:00 a.m., I passed Noah, our floor's nursing assistant.
You all probably just know him as "The Narrator."
Never even introduced himself to ya, did he?
What a narrator thing to do. Typical.
Anyway, he was charting near the med fridge, sipping coffee like he was studying the chaos from a safe altitude.
"Your trainee's upside down," he said, not looking up.
"Yeah, I've given up."
"Can't give up on someone who hasn't figured out what direction they're facing yet."
I paused, then leaned against the wall.
"You think he'll make it?"
Noah smiled.
"He hasn't quit. That's something. And he listens more than he acts like he does."
"He listens?"
"Oh yeah," he said, sipping again. "I watched him try to re-fold a towel for six straight minutes yesterday. Got mad at it like it insulted his family, but he didn't give up."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Six minutes?"
"And he almost had it."
We finished the hallway run by lunch.
Everett hadn't said much all day.
Just watched. Nudged. Appeared.
He caught Jude trying to "whistle mop" down a curved hallway.
Just shook his head and said,
"When you walk with noise, the floor reflects confusion."
Jude tried to whistle quieter.
End of shift, Everett called us back to the closet.
He opened it slowly, stepped inside, and pulled out a folded towel.
Jude straightened up.
"This it?" he asked. "Am I getting towel-certified?"
Everett handed it to him.
Inside: a single cough drop, a paperclip shaped like a question mark, and a typed note.
"If your badge is upside down, that just means you're still figuring out what you stand for."
Fold better tomorrow.
– E
Jude stared at it for a moment.
Then quietly flipped his badge upright.