One Lie, A New Life

I only said I worked late because it sounded harmless. One sentence. One lie.

Instead of going home, I sat in my car outside the hospital, staring at my phone.

That’s when I heard the crash—metal screaming, glass exploding. A car jumped the

curb and slammed into the entrance. People ran. I ran too. Inside,

chaos. A nurse shoved gloves into my hands and yelled, “Help him!” I almost

said I wasn’t staff—but I’d watched my mother do this job for twenty years. I remembered enough.

I held pressure. I talked to the man. I kept him awake. He survived.

Later, police asked why I was there. I said, “I work here.”