Chapter 1 Poverty in Scrubs
[Freya]
The rhythmic thumping from the apartment next door started again at 11:47 PM, just as I was finally drifting off. The headboard banging against our shared wall sent vibrations through my pillow, accompanied by increasingly vocal expressions of passion that made it impossible to ignore.
I stared at the water-stained ceiling of our studio apartment, counting the familiar brown spots that bloomed like twisted flowers across the yellowed paint. The heating pipes clanged sporadically, adding percussion to my neighbors' symphony.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Oh God, yes! Don't stop!"
I grabbed my pillow and pressed it over my head, but it was useless. The paper-thin walls of Rustbelt Apartments hid nothing. I'd been surviving on three hours of sleep for weeks, and my 6 AM shift at Green Hospital was looming in less than six hours.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I rolled out of my narrow bed and knocked sharply on the wall.
"Hey! Some of us have to work in the morning!"
The response was immediate and predictable.
"Mind your own fucking business, prude!" a male voice shouted back, followed by cruel laughter from both parties.
The sounds resumed with even more enthusiasm, as if my complaint had only encouraged them.
I sank back onto my lumpy mattress, pulling the threadbare blanket up to my chin. The apartment felt smaller in the dark—just 400 square feet that I shared with Mom. A kitchenette with a refrigerator that wheezed constantly, a bathroom with a shower that only produced lukewarm water on good days, and this main room that served as bedroom, living room, and study space all at once.
My medical textbooks were stacked precariously on a card table that doubled as my desk, their pages marked with highlighter and coffee stains. Student loan statements sat in a neat pile beside them—$178,000 and counting. Next to those, collection letters from Mom's drug debts. We were living in the small apartment Mom had bought years ago, but her addiction had consumed everything else. We were barely scraping by now—choosing between groceries and textbooks, living on instant noodles and whatever free food I could grab at the hospital.
The neighbors finally finished their late-night activities, leaving behind a silence that felt almost oppressive. I reached for the bottle of melatonin on my nightstand, shook out three pills—double my usual dose—and swallowed them dry. Within twenty minutes, darkness finally pulled me under.
The alarm's shrill cry jolted me awake at 5:15 AM. I'd managed maybe three hours of broken sleep. My body ached as I rolled off the mattress, my neck stiff from the flat pillow that had lost its shape months ago.
Morning light filtered through the single window, revealing our living situation in harsh detail. The carpet was stained and worn, left by the previous owners. The walls showed nail holes, scuff marks, and that persistent brown water stain that seemed to grow larger every month.
Mom was already up, standing at the tiny stove with her back to me. She wore the same faded pink robe she'd had for years, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. The smell of instant coffee filled the small space.
"Morning, sweetheart," she said without turning around. "I made eggs."
I shuffled to the kitchenette where she was transferring scrambled eggs from the pan to two mismatched plates.
My stomach growled audibly at the sight of breakfast. "Thanks, Mom." I accepted the plate gratefully. The dark circles under her eyes had faded somewhat, and she'd gained back a few pounds since leaving rehab, but I knew these eggs would probably be the most substantial thing I'd eat today. The rest would likely be cup noodles or whatever was on sale at the corner store. My clothes had been getting looser lately - not from deliberate dieting, but from the kind of involuntary weight loss that comes with stretching every dollar until it screams.
"How was your sleep?" she asked, settling across from me at our tiny table.
"Fine," I lied, the same way she was lying about being fine.
"I should get going soon," she said, glancing at the clock. "My shift starts at seven."
She'd found work as a cashier at a small grocery store in the next neighborhood over. It wasn't much—minimum wage, no benefits—but it was something.
"How's the job going?" I asked, finishing my eggs.
"It's fine. The manager is nice enough, and the work keeps me busy." She stood up, already reaching for her jacket. "Busy is good."
I nodded, understanding what she meant. Idle time was dangerous for someone in recovery.
Twenty minutes later, we were both heading out. Mom was dressed in her work uniform with a thick wool sweater over it for warmth, while I pulled on a gray jacket that had once fit me perfectly but now hung loose around my shoulders and waist. The jeans I'd bought at the start of medical school were baggy around my hips, held up by a belt cinched to the tightest notch. I caught a glimpse of myself in the small mirror by the door—hollow cheeks, sharp collarbones visible despite the layers I wore.
"Have a good day at work," she called after me. "I love you."
"Love you too," I replied, already heading for the door.
The hallway outside our apartment reeked of cigarette smoke and something unidentifiable that might have been rotting food. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.
Outside, the October air bit through my thin jacket. Rustbelt Apartments squatted like a concrete cancer among the abandoned warehouses and empty lots of this forgotten part of the city. The building's facade was stained with years of pollution and neglect, its windows covered with security bars that made it look more like a prison than a home.
I walked three blocks to the bus stop, passing the usual collection of early morning commuters—mostly hospital workers like me who couldn't afford to live anywhere better. The bus was crowded and smelled of industrial disinfectant and too many people in too small a space.
As the city rolled past outside the grimy windows, I let my mind wander to the day ahead. Rounds at 6:30. Patient evaluations. Chart reviews. And somewhere in that schedule, I'd have to face Dr. Emerson Salvatore.
Don't think about him, I told myself firmly. He's your supervisor. Nothing more.
But even as I thought it, I could feel heat creeping up my neck. Those piercing blue eyes. The way his voice dropped to that authoritative tone when he was giving orders. The inappropriate fantasies that ambushed me at the worst possible moments.
It was ridiculous. Unprofessional. I was a medical resident with crushing debt and a mother in recovery, not some carefree schoolgirl with a crush on her senior classmate. I had bigger problems than my inconvenient attraction to a man who barely seemed to notice I existed.
The bus lurched to a stop outside Green Hospital's main entrance. I grabbed my bag and joined the stream of early shift workers filing off the bus. The hospital rose before us like a gleaming beacon of modern medicine—all glass and steel and efficiency. Such a stark contrast to the small apartment we owned.
For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a different life. One where I didn't have to choose between groceries and textbooks, where I didn't skip meals to pay for bus fare. Where I could focus on becoming the best doctor possible instead of wondering if I'd have enough energy to make it through my shift on an empty stomach. Where Mom was healthy and stable, and I didn't lie awake at night wondering if this would be the day she relapsed.
But fantasies wouldn't pay the bills or keep Mom clean. Only hard work and careful planning could do that.
I straightened my shoulders, checked that my hair was neat, and walked through the hospital's automatic doors.