By the following morning, the fire alarm incident had become local legend.
Someone taped a sign above the now-empty toaster shelf in the break room that read: "R.I.P. Brave Little Toaster (?-2025). You toasted too close to the sun." Someone else added a crude sketch of Trevor holding the flaming appliance like a sword.
Despite the jokes, the smoke had left its mark—figuratively and literally. Jude discovered a permanent scorch streak on the break room ceiling. Maintenance scheduled a repaint, but everyone knew it'd be months before that happened.
I noticed that Everett hadn't said much all morning. He moved the same as always, silent and steady, like a shadow that had somewhere important to be. But his eyes seemed a little more distant. He didn't crack jokes. He didn't even correct Kip when Kip asked if ammonia and bleach could be mixed "for extra strength."
Trevor pulled me aside after lunch.
"Something's off with Everett," he whispered. "He hasn't said anything wise or unsettling in over two hours."
"That's… concerning," I admitted. "He didn't even give me a quote with my toast yesterday. Just handed it to me like a sandwich."
"Exactly," Trevor said. "We're in uncharted territory."
---
Later that afternoon, during a lull in patient flow, Kip swaggered into the lounge with his phone in hand, grinning like he'd just solved world hunger.
"Guess what I just got invited to?" he announced to no one in particular.
"An etiquette class?" Jude asked, flipping through a folder without looking up.
"No. A medical innovation retreat. Bali chapter two," Kip said with pride. "They said I bring a unique voice to the conversation."
"I believe that," Jude muttered.
"They're calling it a medical revolution," Kip went on. "The theme is 'Rewriting Recovery: Healing Through Narrative and Nutrition.'"
"What does that mean?" Trevor asked, confused.
"I think they just used three random words and called it a mission statement," I replied.
"I'll be presenting on my new theory: serotonin elevation through curated hallway scents."
Jude froze. "You mean… aromatherapy?"
"No. It's different. It's *hallway* therapy," Kip clarified, dead serious.
Jude slowly turned to him. "So you're saying smells… in hallways… make people happy?"
"Exactly," Kip beamed.
Trevor whispered to me, "I take back what I said about Everett being off. This is more terrifying."
---
Meanwhile, Everett was quietly fixing a mop head that had split near the base, unwinding the cord and restringing it like someone braiding memory into strands. I approached him cautiously.
"You alright?" I asked.
Everett nodded once, without looking up. "Just remembering."
"Something about the fire?"
"No," Everett said. "About the last time I smelled smoke in a hallway like that."
I waited.
"Field hospital. Middle East. We had a generator spark out. Power loss, oxygen tanks ruptured, screams in the dark. One of the newer guys didn't make it out. Not because of the flames—but because he went back in to save a patient that had already flatlined."
I felt the room go still.
"I still remember the smell," Everett said. "The smoke… and the silence after."
After a long pause, he looked up. "Sorry. Didn't mean to cloud the room."
"No," I said. "You didn't. Just… thanks for trusting me with that."
Everett nodded. "You ever feel like people only notice the ashes, but not the spark that caused them?"
I considered it. "Yeah. All the time."
"Then make sure your spark doesn't go unnoticed," Everett said. "Even if the fire's small. Someone always feels the warmth."
---
At the end of the shift, the team gathered for what had become an unofficial debrief in the break room. Someone had restocked the coffee. Jude was using a Sharpie to redraw eyebrows on the break room poster of "Hand Hygiene Man." Kip sat in the corner writing an "application letter" to TEDx Bali. Trevor had his sketchpad out, doodling a cartoon toaster in a cape.
"You know," Trevor said, "I think I've been going about things the wrong way."
Jude looked up. "Define 'things.'"
"Life," Trevor replied. "I keep trying to be good enough that people finally see me. But what if… the real thing is being honest enough that they can't ignore me?"
Everyone was quiet for a moment.
"Dang," Jude said. "That was actually deep."
Trevor shrugged. "Mr. Carmichael gave me a riddle yesterday. It's been messing with my brain."
"What was it?" I asked.
Trevor thought for a second. "'What can pass through you, see you, and change you, but leaves no mark unless you block it?'"
"Love?" Kip guessed.
"Radiation?" Jude added.
Trevor shook his head. "Light. He said it's like people. If they're real, you won't see them coming—but they'll change what you reflect."
I leaned back in my chair. "We're all just mirrors for each other."
"Some of us are cracked," Everett said, stepping into the doorway with a mop over his shoulder. "But cracked mirrors can still reflect truth. They just show it in pieces."
The room went still.
Then Kip clapped slowly. "Wow. Very dramatic."
Everett raised an eyebrow. "You said that like it was a compliment."
"It was," Kip replied. "Also, Everett… I'm launching my own scent therapy line. Would you consider being the face of 'Eau de Hallway'?"
Everett stared at him.
Kip cleared his throat. "I'll take that as a maybe."
---
As the group disbanded, Trevor lingered behind, flipping to a blank page in his sketchpad. He began to draw: a small fire in the middle of a quiet corridor. Around it stood figures—some holding mops, some stethoscopes, some nothing at all. But all were facing the fire.
He titled it: **"Not All Fires Are Bad."