Night Shift Secret Santa

Journal

Dec. 1, 3:10 a.m. Somebody left a coffee on my cart. Large, two sugars. Exactly how I take it.

Twenty-two years of nights on 6 West. Nobody up there knows my name. They know my cart. My daughter lives in Atlanta, so I send her these from my breaks.

Every night I do 612 last. A man had a stroke, and his daughter sleeps in that chair. I keep it quiet. I hum, though. I can't help humming.

Dec. 8. A scarf. Hand-knit. The note said: 'For the man who hums on 6 West.'

Dec. 11. Wearing it. The whole floor thinks I have a secret admirer. I'm not correcting them.

Dec. 15. 612 was empty. Bed stripped. On nights, nobody tells you why.

No coffee that week. I didn't care about the coffee.

Dec. 23. It was her. Nadia. Her dad is back up on six. Awake.

One more thing. A mug. It says '6 West Night Shift DJ.' Large, two sugars.

Christmas Eve. I still do 612 last. Now he hums back.