DEION

As soon as I turned into the hospital’s parking lot, the roar of my motorcycle’s engine echoed in a hollow song around me.

I ripped through the open space, leaned into the turn, then eased off the throttle and squeezed the front brake, guiding the bike into a smooth slide into my reserved parking spot.

Through my helmet’s visor, I spotted a group of nurses who made me their focus in their huddle.

I called them the smokers’ circle. They were often gathered in the same spot every night I arrived for my shift.

Coincidence? Nah. It never was when it came to me and nurses.

Once I turned off the bike’s engine and kicked down its side stand, I pulled off my helmet and glanced their way, running my palm over my fade and short locs.