Justin Whitmore finally stretched out after nearly twenty-four straight hours on duty. His mind was numb, his thought processes dulled by an all-too-familiar exhaustion. His back ached from hours of standing in surgery bent over an operating table. His tired eyes burned and his stomach was knotted with hunger, but sleep was more important now than food. As his head hit the thin, lumpy pillow, the tensed muscles in his long legs and across his broad shoulders slowly began to relax and the deep furrow between his hazel eyes eased. Just a half hour, he pleaded silently, as his eyes fluttered closed. A half hour of blessed sleep just might get him through the rest of the night and the day that stretched interminably ahead. Sometimes it seemed as though his residency had been an endless blur of such nights. Sleep tugged at him, luring him like a forbidden mistress, attracting him so thoroughly that it was several seconds before the piercing beep dragged him back. “Hell,” he muttered, leaping to his feet and pulling on his white lab coat as he took off down the hall with long strides.
