I turn 31 standing under the harsh lights of the med room, unwrapping a sterile gauze pack with fingers that won’t stop cracking from overwashing. My name’s Anna. Brown hair in a messy knot, tired down to the bone. No balloons, no calls. My phone’s dead anyway. I forgot to charge it last night—too busy finishing chart notes and crying quietly in my car. I told no one it was my birthday. I didn’t want the pity. But I thought maybe someone would remember. My mom used to call first thing every year