he next morning, the fog outside the school hangs low like breath caught in the air. I walk through it clutching my thermos of coffee, still half asleep, my ID card swinging on its blue strap. Inside, the hallway smells like soap again. My sneakers squeak softly as I pass the noticeboard filled with volunteer sign-ups and photos of smiling students in scrubs. There’s one picture that catches my eye—a graduate from two years ago holding her nursing license, her grin bright and tired. I wonder what it must feel like to reach that moment, to hold proof that all the sleepless nights were worth it.

In the lab, Mrs. Ramirez waits with a cart of equipment. “Vitals today,” she says. “You can’t heal what you don’t measure.” She shows us thermometers, blood pressure cuffs, stethoscopes, and digital monitors. Each tool gleams under the lights like something sacred. We pair up. I work with Jonah again. He wraps the cuff around my arm, careful and quiet. The velcro scratches softly, and the air inflates tight around my bicep. I feel the pressure, the pulse echoing in my ears. He counts, releases, and writes the number on his sheet. His handwriting is precise. When it’s my turn, I lift the stethoscope and place the cold metal against his arm. The sound surprises me—a low rhythmic thump, faint but alive. For a moment I forget where I am. It’s a small miracle, hearing another person’s heartbeat like a secret they didn’t have to tell.

Maya leans over from the next table, whispering, “It’s weird, right? Like listening to life itself.” I smile. We practice again and again until our hands move smoother, until the numbers start to make sense. When class ends, I notice my pulse is faster, but lighter. I think I like this.

After lunch, we file into the auditorium for a guest lecture. A nurse from St. Helena, Miss Gordon, stands on stage. Her uniform is simple, her posture straight. She talks about her first code blue, about the fear that froze her hands, and the voice that told her to move anyway. “You’ll be scared,” she says, “but you’ll do it scared. That’s the difference.” The room goes still. I write it down. Do it scared. It feels like something I might need to read again one day.

That evening, I stop by the small café near the bus stop. The owner knows me already and slides a muffin across the counter. I sit by the window with my notes open. The pages smell faintly of alcohol wipes and ink. Outside, the sky turns gold behind the clinic building. People hurry home in scrubs, carrying bags and fatigue. A nurse helps an elderly man across the street, her hand steady under his elbow. The light hits her badge, making it shine. I stare for a while. It looks like a tiny sun she carries with her.

When I get home, Mom asks how school went. She still worries that I study too hard, that nursing will drain me. “You don’t have to fix the world, sweetheart,” she says. I smile and tell her I just want to understand it better. She nods, though I can see she doesn’t fully believe me. I go to my room, toss my bag down, and pull out my reflection journal. My handwriting trails across the page:
Today I heard the sound of a life. It was soft and steady. Maybe that’s what strength sounds like.

Before bed, I scroll through old photos on my phone—me in middle school, messy hair, holding a first-aid kit from camp. I’d forgotten how proud I looked that day. Maybe I’ve always wanted this, just didn’t know how to name it. Now it has a name, a classroom, a pulse.

I turn off the light and lie still. The house hums faintly, like a heartbeat somewhere under the walls. My body feels tired but calm. Tomorrow, Mrs. Ramirez said, we’ll start learning about real patients—the community clinic down the road will open its doors to us for the first time. I’m nervous, but the kind that feels alive.

I close my eyes and whisper the words I wrote earlier. Do it scared.
Then I fall asleep with the sound of that heartbeat still echoing in my ears, like a promise that tomorrow I’ll find another one.