The next morning opened not with fire—but with water.
Specifically, an overflowing toilet in Room 212 that refused to acknowledge the laws of physics or plumbing. The pipe had backed up in the middle of a bedpan swap, flooding the tile with a rush so quick it almost carried off one of the nurse's Crocs.
Trevor and Jude arrived on the scene moments later, armed with a mop bucket, two plungers, and Jude's unwavering disdain for whoever had last charted the room's maintenance history.
"This isn't water," Jude muttered, gagging as he surveyed the bubbling floor. "This is punishment."
"Could be worse," Trevor offered optimistically. "Could be… sentient."
As if in response, the toilet gurgled with unsettling menace.
Jude stepped back. "Nope. That's it. It's haunted. I'm done."
They both turned as Kip wandered in holding a latte. He took one look at the flood, then blinked.
"Did I miss a simulation drill?" he asked.
Trevor handed him a spare mop. "Congratulations. You've been promoted to Assistant to the Overflow Division."
Kip looked down at the mop, then at the floor. "This is… beneath me."
"You're right," Jude said. "But the water isn't. Better hurry."
Kip hesitated for three seconds before stepping outside and calling over his shoulder, "I'll log this in the innovation feedback form!"
---
Back in the break room, I was updating charts when Marcus—the young doctor with the same last name as Everett—walked in. He was carrying a folder under one arm and a protein bar between his teeth.
"You know," Marcus said mid-chew, "I've been reading up on janitorial accident reports."
I raised an eyebrow. "For fun?"
"For context," Marcus clarified. "Everett's file from the military days has redactions thick enough to be a blackout poem. But I found one note… said he was involved in a containment breach."
I stopped typing. "Containment of what?"
"That's the thing," Marcus said, sitting down. "It doesn't say. Just that he was the only person on-site not evacuated. And that the mop he used was later flagged for 'residual readings.' Whatever that means."
I tried not to picture Everett fighting radioactive goo with a mop like a post-apocalyptic janitor-knight.
Marcus leaned forward. "You ever wonder if the quietest guys are the ones with the biggest secrets?"
"Only every day," I said. "But Everett's not dangerous."
"No," Marcus agreed. "He's… prepared."
---
Meanwhile, Everett stood alone in the supply hallway, restocking gloves and surgical blue wrap. His phone buzzed in his pocket—an old model, not even a smartphone. Just a message from a number with no name.
> "Still watching. Still waiting. The spark hasn't gone out."
He stared at the screen for a moment, then closed it and tucked it away.
Behind him, Jude's voice called down the hall, "We need backup. The toilet's declared war."
Everett sighed, grabbed a pair of boots from the shelf, and made his way down.
---
The battle of Room 212 was brief, but glorious.
Trevor manned the mop while Jude blocked the hallway with wet floor signs shaped like a barricade. Kip stood at a safe distance providing unhelpful commentary like, "I think I saw something move under the tiles," and "Is it normal for mop water to hiss?"
When Everett arrived, he assessed the scene with his usual calm, then stepped in without a word. Within minutes, the bubbling ceased, the overflow drained, and the toilet—miraculously—flushed.
"Are you… a plumber too?" Kip asked.
"No," Everett said. "Just experienced."
"In what? Exorcisms?" Jude muttered.
Trevor nodded solemnly. "We owe you one, brother."
Everett wiped his hands on a towel. "Nah. Just add it to the ledger."
Kip was still looking at the toilet like it owed him money. "I'm going to propose a motion for automatic bidets."
"Why?" Jude asked. "So the hallway smells like lavender and shame?"
Trevor snorted.
---
That night, the hospital was quiet—eerily so. I found myself walking the halls after my shift ended, unable to shake a weird sense of anticipation. As if something was coming. Or had already come and left fingerprints.
I turned a corner and found Everett sitting alone in the darkened chapel.
"I figured I'd find you here," I said, stepping in.
Everett didn't look surprised. "Just needed somewhere quiet."
"Did you get a message?" I asked.
Everett didn't reply right away. Then: "Yeah."
"From who?"
"Doesn't matter," Everett said. "Not anymore."
I sat beside him. "You don't have to keep all this to yourself."
Everett folded his hands. "I used to believe that silence was safety. That if I didn't say anything, I wouldn't lose anything. But silence doesn't stop the fire. It just lets it burn without a name."
I looked at the flickering candle on the altar. "So… give it a name."
Everett turned to him, and for once, the old man looked young. Vulnerable. Honest.
"I lost a kid," he said. "Years ago. Not mine. But he followed me in. Trusted me. I told him we'd get through the breach together. I got out. He didn't."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"I carry him in every step," Everett said. "That's why I mop slow. It's not just floors. It's ghosts."
We sat there in the silence—two men, one candle, and the memory of someone who never came back.
"I'll help you carry him," I said.
Everett smiled. Just a little. "Thanks. But be warned… he was a talker."