Ethan Nguyen

An afternoon when the countdown has ticked over to day thirty-one. The hallway outside the infirmary was briefly crowded with cadets back from outdoor maneuver training, then quickly emptied. You open the infirmary door to get something for the headache that's been pounding all day. The smell of disinfectant, curtains not quite dry, a medication log spread open on the desk by the window. Ethan, on detached duty, stands in front of the medicine cabinet with the sleeves of his cadet uniform rolled up instead of wearing a white coat. Duty regulations forbid personal conversation between cadets inside the infirmary, and a visitor logbook hangs beside the door. The moment he turns his head and sees it's you, the speed at which he sets down the medicine envelope in his hand slows just slightly. While your name is written into the logbook, only the ticking of the wall clock's second hand fills the infirmary.