Hospitals don't sleep.
They just dim.
And some of the hardest conversations don't happen during daylight—they wait until fluorescent lights hum just loud enough to cover the sound of unraveling.
It was a night shift. Skeleton crew. A transfer gone wrong left a patient in 3C panicked, combative, and requiring constant monitoring.
The nurses were overloaded.
I was floating between surgical and triage.
And somehow, Jude and Marcus ended up stuck in the same room for over an hour with a patient who thought the IV pump was the sound of "government insects."
Jude tried jokes.
Marcus tried protocols.
Neither worked.
Eventually, we got the patient stabilized, sedated, and sleeping.
And then the room went still.
I lingered in the hallway, just outside, organizing supply labels to make it look like I wasn't listening.
I was absolutely listening.
Jude exhaled. Sat on the edge of the bed. Not the patient's—his own.
Marcus stood stiffly by the charting station.
Finally, Jude broke the silence.
"You know, I used to think if you believed hard enough, you could stop someone from unraveling."
Marcus didn't look up.
"Belief doesn't stabilize vitals."
"No," Jude said. "But sometimes, neither does medicine."
Marcus clicked his pen.
"This again?"
"This?"
Jude smiled, not wide. Just enough.
"You mean this being me saying something that doesn't fit your equations?"
Marcus didn't reply.
Jude leaned back.
"I get it, you know. You need structure. I used to build altars out of rules, too."
"And now?"
"Now I mop up after gods that didn't answer."
That hung in the air for a long time.
Marcus finally said:
"I lost a patient. First year of residency."
"You and every doctor alive."
"No, Jude. I lost her."
Jude's smile dropped.
Marcus continued.
"Pediatric ICU. Her chart said allergies were noted. They weren't. The nurse missed it, I missed it, pharmacy didn't crosscheck. She coded. Fast."
"And you've carried her ever since."
"No," Marcus said, eyes hard. "I buried her. And I buried the part of myself that thought 'meaning' had any place in medicine."
Jude didn't blink.
Didn't mock.
Didn't joke.
He just nodded.
"That's fair."
The room sat heavy for a while.
Then Jude spoke, quieter.
"You know, when I left seminary, it wasn't because I stopped believing in God.
It was because I started thinking He might not believe in me."
Marcus looked at him.
Really looked.
"You carry that?"
"Only on Tuesdays. And Thursdays. And the fourth Wednesday of every month."
He shrugged.
"I carried someone once too. Spiritually. Pushed them hard. Thought I could save them. Thought I did save them."
"What happened?"
"They died clean. But not healed."
Marcus sat down across from him. A first.
"So what now?"
Jude shrugged.
"Now? I tell jokes. Fold towels. Make chaos.
And when people cry and can't say why, I hand them a cold Sprite and sit beside them until they remember they're not alone."
"That's your treatment plan?"
"It's better than yours."
Marcus laughed. Actually laughed.
I stepped in then, pretending I hadn't been there the whole time.
"Hey. We good in here?"
Marcus nodded.
Jude raised a hand.
"Spiritually cleared. Medically stabilized. Emotionally in progress."
As we walked back toward the nurse's station, Marcus pulled me aside.
"He's not just a janitor."
"None of us are," I said.
"I mean… he's got a theology degree, doesn't he?"
"Yeah.
But more importantly, he's got a soul."
Jude called back.
"Stop talking about me behind my holy back!"
Marcus smiled. So did I.
And that night, in a room that reeked of alcohol pads and quiet guilt, something shifted.
The clinical met the spiritual.
And neither flinched.