Chapter twenty-four
Antonia
I regret there wasn’t enough for both.
That’s the cold, hard truth of what I do. Stocks are limited. Criteria needs met. But sometimes, even when it all looks hopeful, life pivots, and someone needs to lose out. In our world, that can mean life, death, or a clock running out sooner than needed.
My destroyed wellies sit at the door where I kicked them off when I got home. A trail of wet, muddy sock prints lead up my hallway. My toes haven’t thawed yet, still frozen after being wet all day.
But my lipstick is still intact. Hastily applied when I realized I’d been set up. When I was asked to defend myself in front of media coyotes with no warning.
We do the best we can. That’s what I said. It’s not clear-cut.
It’s triage.
Our decisions are made on the evidence at hand and the possibilities of a positive outcome. Sickness doesn’t follow a script. No medicine triggers the same symptoms in every victim. And not every patient gets the results we hope for. All we can do as professionals is stack the odds in their favor. Give the people with the best chance their yearned-for wonder drug. Then pray it works.
I believe in allocation.
In viability.
In leaning into probability.
Those beliefs are how I survived Mikey’s lack of treatment. Once I understood the process. The blood markers. The scan results. I understood why our answer was no.
Maybe that’s why saying no comes easier to me than most. Or maybe I’ve trained myself not to feel the weight of it. Why I said no to Daniel Longdown. How can I go home and eat dinner after telling a patient that their final chance is gone?
I’m not sure that always makes me right.
I can justify every decision to myself. But justification isn’t the same as peace.
They say that’s all you need to be able to do. Unless someone questions you, and the relevant authorities get involved.
I have built a life on being right. By knowing the criteria. Scouring the conditions. And matching a candidate to a program.
But being right doesn’t stop people from hating you. Sometimes emotion doesn’t need data to win. It just does.
My phone pings in my pocket.
I fish it out. An email. Spam, no doubt.
I ignore it.
It pings again. This time it’s Ben.
Subject: Next Steps
Are you alright?
Today was tough. You were inspiring.
Send me the finalized funding gap details.
I’ll make calls
Ben
My thumb hovers over reply. He’s offering to take the heat on this. To try to rectify the shortfall I ultimately created. My appreciation knots with irritation. I don’t need rescuing. But I am tired.