They care that you caught the subtle, deadly fever spike at 2:00 a.m.

They care that you recognized the microscopic shift in a premature baby’s cry from halfway down the corridor.

For the first time in my life, being watchful was valued more than being watched.

I met Ben Cole when his ancient, rusting Toyota Corolla died in the hospital parking garage at the tail end of my double shift.

I diagnosed his dead alternator the same way I’d read a patient’s chart.

As I attached the jumper cables in the freezing rain, he leaned over the open hood and asked, with a wide grin, whether I was this terrifyingly calm about everything in life.