Skin Shift
Copyright© 2026 by Kate Evergreen
Chapter 4: Advocacy
I wake the morning after my decision with a strange sense of peace. The sun is streaming through my curtains, the desert air warm and inviting. I stretch in my bed, feeling the muscles in my back and shoulders loosen, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I know exactly what I need to do.
I’m still naked. I’ve been sleeping without clothes for weeks now, and it feels more natural than anything else. The sheets are soft against my skin, the morning air cool on my bare shoulders. I lie still, letting the light wash over me, feeling the warmth seep into my skin.
You made a decision.
Yes.
You’re going to keep going.
Yes.
You’re going to do it right.
Yes.
You’re going to honor the nurses who died.
Yes.
You’re going to be brave.
Yes. I’m going to be brave.
I get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. The shower is hot and soothing, and I stand under the spray for longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the remnants of sleep. My body feels different today, stronger, more present, more alive.
After my shower, I dress in comfortable clothes and make coffee. I stand at the counter, looking out the window at the desert. The sun is high, the sky a brilliant blue. The saguaro cacti in my neighbor’s yard cast long shadows across the dusty ground.
I think about the decision I’ve made. The commitment I’ve made to myself. To keep going. To do it right. To be brave.
You’re going to face challenges.
Yes.
People are going to question you.
Yes.
People are going to doubt you.
Yes.
And you’re going to keep going.
Yes. Because that’s what Frank would have wanted.
I finish my coffee and make another decision. I’m going to go to the clothing-optional park again. I need the clarity that comes with being outside, being free, being myself.
I drive to the park and strip off my clothes the moment I arrive. The sun is warm on my skin, the breeze cool against my bare chest. I walk through the trails, feeling the earth beneath my feet, the air on my skin.
I pass other people, some clothes, some not, and no one looks twice. I feel invisible and visible all at once. This is what I want. Not just the work, not just the connection, but the freedom to be myself everywhere.
I find a quiet spot and sit on a warm rock, looking out at the desert landscape. The saguaro cacti stretch toward the sky, their arms reaching like supplicants. The sun beats down on my bare shoulders, and I feel connected to the earth in a way I’ve never felt before.
This is who you are now.
This is who you choose to be.
I stay at the park for hours, thinking, processing, planning. The clarity is stronger here, away from the noise of the hospital, the weight of the lies. I feel like I’m finally seeing myself clearly for the first time in years.
When I finally return home, I feel transformed. The woman who left her house this morning is not the same woman who’s returning. I’m stronger. More present. More alive.
That night, I arrived at the hospital early, as always. The locker room is empty. I undressed without hesitation, the cool air familiar on my skin.
I look at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back is different from the woman who walked into this locker room two weeks ago. She’s stronger. More present. More alive.
This is who you are now.
This is who you choose to be.
I clip my badge to my lanyard, hang my stethoscope around my neck, and walk out of the locker room.
The floor is busy tonight. A full census, with several new admissions. The night shift is in full swing: beeps and murmurs, the shuffle of feet, the quiet urgency of care. I’m part of it. A naked part of it, but a part of it nonetheless.
I move through my rounds with growing confidence. The fear is still there, but it’s quieter now. Background noise instead of overwhelming static. I check vitals, update charts, and comfort patients. The routine is familiar, grounding.
Frank is waiting for me. He smiles when I enter.
“There she is,” he says. “The brave one.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Bullshit.” He pats the bed beside him. “Sit for a minute. I’ve got something to say.”
I sit. He looks at me with those sharp, assessing eyes.
“I heard about Angela,” he says. “About the nurses who died.”
“News travels fast.”
“Small hospital.” He grins. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit. You’re not fine. You’re worried.”
I take a breath. “I am worried. But I’m also determined. I’m going to keep doing the program. I’m going to do it right.”
He nods slowly. “That’s good. That’s important. But it’s also going to be hard.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” He leans forward. “People are going to watch you, Nicola. They’re going to judge you. They’re going to question you. They’re going to challenge you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re ready for that?”
I think about the question. The answer comes from somewhere deep inside.
“I have to be,” I say. “Because this matters. The program matters. The connection matters. And I’m not going to let anyone take that away.”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he nods.
“Good,” he says. “That’s what I needed to hear.”
The shift continues. I move from room to room, patient to patient. The rhythm is familiar now, almost meditative. I feel present in a way I haven’t in years. The clarity is a constant companion.
But something is different tonight. There’s a new energy on the floor, a tension I can’t quite name. The staff is quieter than usual. They keep glancing at the nurses’ station, then looking away.
What’s going on?
I find out when I’m charting at the nurses’ station.
A man appears at the end of the hallway. He’s in his mid-forties, with sharp features and a focused expression. He’s wearing a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck. He’s a doctor, clearly, but I don’t recognize him.
He walks towards the nurses’ station with purpose, his eyes scanning the floor. When he sees me, he stops. His eyes travel down my body, taking in my bare skin, my nakedness, then snap back up to my face.
“Nurse Archer,” he says. “I’m Dr. Aris Thorne. I’m a neurologist. I’ve been assigned to this floor.”
I feel my heart start to race. “Welcome, Dr. Thorne.”
“I’ve heard about your ... program.” His voice is tight, controlled. “I have concerns.”
“Concerns?”
“This is inappropriate,” he says. “Unprofessional. You’re a nurse. You’re supposed to be a professional. Not...” He gestures at my body. “Not this.”
I force myself to stay calm. “Dr. Thorne, the program has been studied, reviewed, and approved by the hospital administration. It’s evidence-based. It’s effective.”
“I don’t care about the studies.” His eyes are hard. “I care about my patients. And I won’t have them exposed to this ... whatever this is.”
“It’s not whatever. It’s a legitimate program”
“I don’t care.” He steps closer. “I’m going to be watching you, Nurse Archer. And if I see anything that concerns me, I’m going to report it.”
I meet his gaze, my voice steady. “You do what you need to do, Dr. Thorne. I’ll keep doing what I’m doing.”
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he turns and walks away.
The rest of the shift passes in a blur. I move through my rounds, doing my work, being present. But Dr. Thorne’s words echo in my ears.
“Inappropriate. Unprofessional.”
“I don’t approve.”
“I’ll be watching you.”
He’s going to make this difficult.
Yes.
He’s going to try to shut the program down.
Yes.
And you’re going to fight him.
Yes.
Because this matters.
Yes. This matters.
Frank is waiting when I return to his room. He looks at me, his eyes sharp.
“You look troubled again,” he says.
“Another confrontation.”
“With who?”
“Dr. Thorne. The new neurologist.”
He nods slowly. “I heard about him. He’s got a reputation.”
“For being brilliant?”
“For being judgmental.” He pats the bed beside him. “Sit. Tell me about it.”
I sit and tell him about the conversation. The accusations. The threats.
“He’s going to try to shut the program down,” I say.
“Probably.”
“Then I’ll fight him.”
He looks at me, a smile playing on his lips. “I know you will.”
“It’s not going to be easy.”
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