8-year-old M with a complex medical history. Here for possible refeeding syndrome. I read the line. I write the plan. I follow the resident, nodding when I should, watch as he explains electrolytes to a mother who doesn’t need a definition, just a cure. The boy looks at me with sunken eyes that know more hunger than any child should. I chart his labs, follow his K+, hope his phosphorus holds, as if watching closely could be enough. But my note doesn’t say how his fingers twitch when I say the word “food.”

64-year-old F presented yesterday for chest pain. Workup in the ED showed elevated troponin. I practice my presentation before I speak to the attending. I recite: vitals, EKG, risk factors. I don’t mention the quiver in her voice when she whispered, “I didn’t want to come in. I thought it was just the heat.” Her daughter holds her hand like it’s the only thread still tying her here. The monitor beeps, counting time we cannot promise. We talk of cath labs and clots but no one says fear, not out loud.