“Yes.” Dr. Ramírez strode toward Naomi then gently pushed the hair from the child’s forehead. “Move this gurney into Exam 4 and take her mother upstairs.”

By 5:00 a.m., the hospital had quieted again. He’d transferred four victims to the operating room then to their rooms once they came out of recovery. And he’d taken one body to the morgue. His least favorite transport.

Not a hard night in the E.R., but two shifts added up to a backache and the need to relax for a few minutes. He wished he had time for a nap, but when he got to the break room, another orderly snored on the sofa.

He took a thermos from his locker and poured the last of the coffee into his cup. With a groan, he settled down in the only comfortable chair in the room and leaned his head back.

Barely a few breaths short of falling asleep, he opened his eyes to see Dr. Ramírez put a can of soda on the table and drop in the chair across from him. She seemed to be favoring her right leg and was rubbing her thigh almost surreptitiously.

“Old football injury,” she said with a slight smile before she nodded at his thermos and asked, “Saving money?”

“I can’t take the coffee someone makes in the E.R.”

“I know.” She held up her Coke. “Tastes like it’s spiked with old motor oil.”

“My mother makes terrific coffee. I’d rather have it than pay for it in the cafeteria.”

“I heard you say your mother is home from prison.”

He nodded and shifted in the chair.

“What was she in for?”

“Forgery.”

“Checks?”

“Paintings.”

“Oh, an artist.” She took a drink of Coke. As she lifted her chin, Mike watched a wisp of hair that had come loose to curl on her neck. He’d never thought of Dr. Ramírez as having curls or long hair…and he’d better not think about that.

She put the can down and licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue. The motion wasn’t meant to be seductive, just cleaning up after the last drop, but all Mike could think of for a few seconds was her lips, round and soft and pink. She’d spoken for several seconds before Mike realized she’d said something.

“I’m sorry. I’m falling asleep. What did you say?”

“My uncle was in prison.” She stood and put the can in the recycle bin.

“Oh?” He swiveled to look at her.

“It was really hard on his family.”

That was all she said. She didn’t offer sympathy or platitudes or advice or dig further into his life. She only commented on a shared experience. And she didn’t say, “I know how you feel.” Because no one really did.

“Thank you.”

“Fuller,” came a male voice from the hall. “Transfer.”

“And the fun keeps on coming,” Dr. Ramírez said. She gave Mike a smile, that little smile that was only a curving of her lips. It made the long shift seem not nearly as bad.

Ana stretched and massaged the muscles in her neck. She hated the night shift, but that was what she had to cover if she wanted to learn everything she could about emergency medicine.

Besides, her schedule wasn’t all that bad: on twenty-four hours, off twenty-four, with no more than seventy hours a week. It allowed her time with her family, time to study and a few hours to rest.

The pain in her thigh was worse than it had been for years. She must have twisted her leg. Now all she wanted to do was elevate it for a few hours. Not an easy thing to do in the E.R.

In the long run, she was sorry she’d heard the conversation between Fuller and the other orderly. Better for her not to know about the private lives of anyone she worked with.

So why was she interested in Fuller? Had she made him her project of the year? Usually her projects were easier to handle, more open and not nearly as attractive as Fuller. Wait. When had she started to think of Fuller as attractive?

Well, what woman wouldn’t? He had great longish dark hair and a terrific smile, although few people over the age of ten saw it. What she usually saw was a face clear of expression with a hint of anger in the depths of his dark eyes. The charm and the anger made him, well, interesting, as if he had dimensions he never shared.

Add to that his broad shoulders, great build and the black stubble that covered his chin and cheeks by the end of the shift, and—¡caramba!—what’s not to like?

Which meant it was time to get back to the E.R. before she had any more completely unprofessional thoughts about a man with no ambition. Maybe in other people’s minds, Fuller wouldn’t be seen as lacking in ambition. He worked hard, made good decisions, was great with kids. On the other hand, as an orderly he wasn’t using every bit of his ability. Why wasn’t he in school? Her brothers always told her she was an education snob, and maybe she was, but she hated it when people didn’t push themselves to live up to their potential.

Besides that, he was a man who had clearly but politely told her to leave him alone, a man she had absolutely no interest in.

None at all.

“Hey, chica,” Enrique, Ana’s sixteen-year-old brother, said as she entered her family’s home that evening. “What’s for dinner?”

“What does it matter, Quique? You eat everything I put on the table. You’d eat lizards if I could catch enough to fill you up.” She grabbed him in a hug that became a wrestling match when he tried to slip away.

“Sounds good.”

“And you never put on a pound.” Ana glanced at his skinny body then down at her rounder hips. “I don’t think we come from the same family.”

She headed for the kitchen and glanced back at him. “Where are you going?” As if she didn’t know. He was wearing baggy shorts, a Spurs T-shirt and his favorite Nike runners.

“Pickup game at Rolando’s.”

“Dinner is at seven. Be home.” She glared at him, well aware that he’d probably grab a bite with Rolando’s family before he meandered home in a few hours. “I’d like to see you sometime.”

“Mira.” He held out his arms and rotated slowly in front of her. “Look, here I am.”

“Just go.” She waved as he ducked out the door.

“Ana, is that you?”

Hearing her father’s voice from the kitchen, she hurried toward it. “Hi, Papi.”

Her father sat at the table doing a crossword puzzle. He and Enrique looked so much alike. Both six feet tall and slender. Her father had streaks of white in his still-full, dark hair. Before her mother’s death almost a year ago, he’d been a quiet and often moody man. Since then, he’d retreated deeper, lost any spring in his step and his shoulders were more rounded. He was still a handsome man but not a happy one, as much as he tried to hide it.

“What’s a five-letter word for hackneyed? Ends in an E.”

“How ’bout stale or trite?”

“Those might fit.” His pen hovered over the folded newspaper.

She pulled an apron from the pantry, tied it around her, and continued to watch her father. He was always doing puzzles. Crossword and Sudoku and anagrams. He had a basket by his chair with puzzle books in it and spent most of his time at home solving those puzzles. He’d become a hermit.

“Papi, you have to get out more.” She picked up a dishrag and squirted detergent on it. “Let’s go to a movie next Saturday.”

He didn’t answer, just stared at the crossword clues.

The kitchen cabinets were dark walnut; the linoleum floor that was supposed to look like bricks was well-worn. This place felt a lot more like home than the tiny efficiency she’d recently rented a few blocks from the hospital and spent so little time in. She squeezed out the dishrag and started cleaning the white tile counters.

When she finished, she said, “I thought I’d fix enchiladas tonight.” She pulled down a jar of tomato sauce. Her mother had always made her sauce from scratch, with real tomatoes, but this would just have to do. Except for her father, no one could tell the difference. After eating his wife’s cooking for thirty-five years, he knew homemade sauce from canned.