Chapter 14
Guard looked away. He kept promise. Hands clasped behind back. Face turned toward window. Sunglasses caught daylight. He did not move.
Door opened slow. Hinge creaked. Employer step sounded in hall. Heel on parquet. I heard him. Guard heard him. Neither spoke.
I had maybe ten seconds. Maybe less.
Notebook lay open on nightstand. Fresh page blank. Lined paper white under pen. Glass of water sat beside it. Cat watched glass. Tail curled tight. Patient breathed under dark blanket. Eyes half open. Watching me.
Pen felt heavy. Hand shook. I pressed tip down.
I wrote true dose. Not ordered dose. True dose. 2.5 mg actually given at 14:32 from amber bottle. Bottle volume now 12 ml remaining, 18 ml at start of shift. Spill at 11:47 noted — cat knocked glass, diluted notebook entry on prior page, rewrite required, prior entry void. I dated it. I timed it. I signed it. Letters small, legible, binding.
Bottle sat near bed rail. Amber glass dull in daylight. White cap tight. Evidence intact. I did not hide it. I left it visible. Notebook entry matched bottle. That mattered.
Guard still faced window. Painting in gold frame reflected light. White chair with dark wood frame empty beside wall. Parquet creaked under my weight. I breathed slow. Natural breathing. Pause before next move.
I pulled phone from brown crossbody bag. Bag strap slipped off shoulder. Stethoscope swung against chest. Phone unlocked with thumb. Camera open.
I photographed fresh page. Flat lay. Lined notebook, black pen, glass of water, cat paw at edge of frame. Shutter click soft. Second photo closer. Dose, volume, spill note all readable. I checked screen. Image sharp. I locked phone. Slipped phone back into bag. Backup existed now. Legally binding entry duplicated.
Door opened wider.
Employer entered. Man, 50s, dark suit, no sunglasses, tie perfect. He filled doorway. He looked at guard first. Guard did not turn back. Guard kept eyes on window. Hands still clasped.
Employer looked at me. At notebook. At pen in hand. At amber bottle near bed rail. At patient in bed. At cat on nightstand.
He spoke. Voice low, controlled. "What are you writing?"
I did not close notebook. I did not cover page. Hand still on pen. Ink still wet.
Patient made sound. Small cough under blanket. Eyes tracked employer. Employer ignored patient.
Guard shifted weight. Just slight. Shoulder moved. He stayed near wall. He had given me window. Now window closed.
Employer stepped closer. Parquet thudded. He reached for notebook. Not yet touching. Hand hovered.
I kept pen to paper. Choice moment frozen no longer. True chart existed. Photo backup existed. Employer confrontation set.
He stared at page. He read dose. He read volume. He read spill note.
Silence hung. Daylight from large window on right cut across floor. Dust motes floated.
Employer said, "You rewrote this."
I said, "I corrected it."
He did not touch bottle. He did not touch glass. He watched my hand.
Guard finally turned head inch. Sunglasses reflected employer back.
Employer leaned down. Face near notebook. He read again.
May you like
Door behind him stayed half open. Hall light spilled in.
I held pen still. Hold without resolution.
