Chapter 4
His eyes opened while I was still holding the glass.
I hadn't noticed at first. I'd lifted it off the wooden nightstand the way I'd been told to — careful, with both hands, not spilling — because the cat was still there watching it. The gray-white tabby hadn't moved since I'd started charting. It lay curled at the edge of the table with its chin tucked down, eyes fixed on the water like it was waiting for it to do something.
The patient made a sound. Not a word at first, just air catching in his throat. I turned.
He was looking at me. Really looking, for the first time since I'd walked into that bright bedroom suite. The dark blanket had slipped down to his chest and his face was pale against the pillow, but his eyes were clear. Lucid. He licked his lips and whispered, "Water."
I nodded and stepped closer to the rail of the hospital bed. The parquet floor creaked under my shoes. Behind me near the wall by the window, the guard shifted his weight. Just enough to let me know he was listening.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I have it right here."
I held the glass out, just within his reach, the way I'd been trained. Close enough he didn't have to strain, far enough he had to choose to take it. The daylight from the large window on the right cut across the bedsheet and made the water look brighter than it was. The cat's ears twitched.
He didn't take it right away. His hand came up from under the blanket, thin and slow, and then stopped halfway. He stared at the glass, then at my face, then at the nightstand where my notebook still lay open with the pen across it.
"What was in the bottle?" he asked.
My stomach dropped. His voice was hoarse, barely louder than the breathing of the room, but every word landed.
I didn't answer fast enough. I felt my hand tighten around the glass. The small amber bottle with the white cap was in my brown crossbody bag where I'd slipped it after I'd held it near the bed rail. It was still there, pressed against my hip. I could feel its shape through the canvas.
The guard answered for me.
"He means the vitamins," he said from behind me. His voice was flat, even. He hadn't moved from his spot near the wall. Hands still clasped in front of him, sunglasses hiding his eyes. "Routine supplement. Nothing you need to worry about."
The patient didn't look at the guard. He kept his eyes on me. "I asked her."
The cat stood up on the nightstand. It stretched its thin back and walked a slow circle around the notebook, its tail brushing the glass that was still in my hand. It settled again, closer to the water, and stared.
I tried to breathe normally. I tried to do the thing that had always made me good at this job — keep my face still, keep my hands steady, let the patient see competence before anything else.
"It's ordered by your doctor," I said. The lie felt terrible and small in my mouth. "Standard dose."
It wasn't what I'd rehearsed in my head, and it wasn't true either. I saw it register. His eyebrows pulled together just a fraction. A micro-expression, there and gone. Disappointment, not anger.
"Then why didn't you write it down?" he whispered. He glanced toward the notebook again. "You were writing."
From the corner of my eye I saw the guard tilt his head a little. A warning without words.
"I'm charting everything as I go," I said, and that part was at least technically true. I held the glass a little closer. "Do you want to try a sip? Your throat sounds dry. It might help you swallow."
For a second I thought he would take it. His fingers twitched. He looked at the clear water, at my hand offering it, at the cat that was now watching him instead of the glass. The room was so quiet I could hear the faint hum of the house and the soft tick of the window frame expanding in the warm daylight.
Then he pulled his hand back under the dark blanket.
"No," he said. "Not until you tell me."
The words weren't loud. They didn't have to be. He turned his head away toward the gold-framed landscape painting on the wall and closed his eyes, like the effort of holding them open had cost him everything he had.
I stood there with the glass in both hands, the water completely still. The cat kept staring at it. My own reflection wavered faintly in the surface. I could feel the guard's presence behind me without looking — not threatening, just absolute. A reminder that there were two answers in this room and only one of them would get charted.
I lowered the glass slowly and set it back down on the wooden nightstand, exactly where it had been, next to the lined notebook and the black pen. My hand left a faint damp ring on the wood.
"I'll leave it here for when you're ready," I said.
May you like
He didn't answer. He didn't open his eyes. The guard didn't say anything else either. The silence settled heavy over the bedroom medical suite again, bright and warm and wrong.
I picked up the pen because I didn't know what else to do with my hands, and stared down at the blank line where the dose should have been.
