Chapter 8
Nightstand clock showed 4:17. Amber numbers glowed against wood grain. Daylight still came through large window on right, thinner now, lower. Same private bedroom medical suite. Same wooden parquet floor, white trim, gold-frame landscape painting on wall, white chair with dark wood frame near window. Guard stood near wall, hands clasped, sunglasses on despite indoor light. Patient lay under dark blanket in hospital bed, chest rising shallow. Cat lay curled beside glass of water and lined notebook.
I stood beside bed rail. Amber bottle in my right hand. White cap caught light. My hand steadier now. Yesterday hand trembled. Today hand held.
Notebook lay open on nightstand. Previous entry visible. My handwriting from afternoon before. Time, dose, initials. Numbers I knew were not true. Ink dry. Page stared up at me.
Clock ticked to 4:18. Second dose due. Guard shifted weight. He did not look at me. He looked at notebook, then bottle, then window.
I unscrewed white cap. Small click. Amber glass warm from my palm. I did not pour. I held bottle over glass of water and stopped. Shoulders tight. Breath shallow.
Guard spoke low. "Chart says four o'clock."
I nodded. Did not answer right away. I recapped bottle. Set bottle down near bed rail. Not poured.
Patient eyes opened then. Not fully lucid. Gray eyes moved toward glass of water. Dry lips parted. He swallowed without water. Looked at me, then at bottle.
Cat stretched on nightstand. Gray-white tabby thin, tail flicked against clear glass. Notebook pages fluttered from small draft through window. Cat stood, arched, jumped off nightstand toward floor. Hind paw clipped black pen. Pen spun, fell, clattered onto parquet. Ink cap popped off. Small black mark on floor.
Sound broke quiet. Guard glanced down at pen. Patient blinked slowly. I bent, picked up pen. Wiped tip on edge of notebook. Ink smeared.
Cat landed softly, padded toward white chair, settled under it. Watched me.
Guard said, "You missed time."
I said, "I know."
He said, "You write now, you keep job."
I looked at notebook again. False entry from day before still there. If I wrote same lie again, two lies in row. Legally binding. If I wrote truth now, discrepancy obvious. Previous lie exposed. Either way trap shut.
I capped amber bottle tighter. Slid notebook slightly away from glass. My voice low.
"I need verification," I said.
Guard frowned behind sunglasses. "Verification of what? Doctor order clear."
"Order says dose as needed. Not scheduled," I said. "Previous dose not needed. Patient stable then. Stable now."
Guard hands stayed clasped. Jaw tightened.
"You want me to call supervisor?" I asked. "Let me check chart against actual vitals before I pour."
Guard stared at painting, then at me. Silence stretched. Patient breath hitched. He reached weak hand toward glass but could not reach. I did not move glass yet. I waited.
Guard said, "You delay, you chart delay. Employer sees delay."
"Then employer sees I asked for verification," I said. "Competent nurses verify."
He exhaled through nose. Stepped one step toward window, away from nightstand. Deliberate look-away yesterday promised for once. Now he gave half-look-away. He turned shoulder, gave me back, but stayed close enough to hear.
"Thirty seconds," he said. "Then you chart something."
I uncapped pen. Did not write dose. Wrote new line: 4:18 — dose held pending verification — vitals rechecked — MD callback requested — initials. Hand steadier than yesterday. Letters small, tight, legible.
I did not pour contents of amber bottle into glass. Left glass clear. Left bottle capped on rail where guard could see I had not hidden it. Left previous false entry untouched, visible above new line. Evidence remained.
Clock showed 4:19.
Guard turned back. Looked at notebook. Saw new words. Did not touch notebook. Nodded once, sharp.
May you like
Patient eyes had closed again. Breathing even. Cat watched glass of water from under chair. Pen left ink smudge on my thumb.
I kept bottle in hand. Waited for callback.
