“The patient has been assigned to bay two.Night supervisor is handling the chart.”
“Bay two is occupied.Mr.Egan, post-op knee, sleeping through his third round of vitals.”
The paramedic finally looked at her.“Bay two has been cleared.Your patient was moved to bay five, twenty minutes ago.”
Maren stopped walking.She turned to look down the hallway toward bay two.The door was open.The bed was freshly made, the monitors powered on and waiting.Mr.Egan’s walker was gone from the corner where he’d propped it before falling asleep.
Someone had moved her patient without telling her.
“Who authorized the transfer?”
“Night supervisor.”He didn’t slow down.The gurney turned the corner toward bay two, and the second paramedic pulled the curtain closed behind them before Maren could follow.
She stood in the empty hallway and counted to three.Then she walked to bay five.
Mr.Egan was propped up on two pillows, blinking at the ceiling.His walker had been placed next to the bed, and his call button was pinned to the blanket within reach, but the orientation was wrong—someone had set it up for a left-handed patient.Mr.Egan was right-handed.
“They moved me,” he said.His voice was foggy with sleep and whatever was left of the anesthetic.“Nurse came in and said they needed the room.I didn’t even get my slippers.”
“I’ll get them for you.”Maren adjusted the call button to his right side, checked his IV line, and laid a hand on his forearm.“How’s your pain?”
“Five.Maybe six when I move.”
“I’ll bring something with the slippers.Try to rest.”
She pulled the curtain and walked back toward bay two.The curtain was still drawn.She could hear low voices on the other side—the paramedics and someone else.A woman’s voice, clipped and unhurried.
Janet Creighton.
Maren paused at the nurses’ station and pulled up the system.Bay two now showed a new admit: Jane Doe, sealed transfer, SPT-7, Dr.R.Vasik attending.The timestamp read 1:52 a.m.No vitals entered.No medication orders.No emergency contact.No age listed, though the paramedic had said mid-twenties.
She opened the transfer module—or tried to.The gray box with the lock icon stared back at her.Access still restricted.
Maren closed the screen and reached for the medication cabinet key.She pulled Mr.Egan’s pain meds, documented the draw, and carried the medication and a pair of hospital-issue socks to bay five.She administered the dose, watched his face soften as the edge came off, and retrieved his slippers from bay two’s bathroom while the curtain was still drawn.
She placed the slippers by his bed and walked back to the station.The burner phone was in the front pocket of her scrub top, where she’d been carrying it since Tuesday.
She thought about the text Graham had sent at six, when she’d clocked in for the shift.
Anything out of the ordinary, you tell me.Don’t wait.
She’d typed back:
I’ll tell you when there’s something to tell.
There was something to tell.
She stepped into the medication room and closed the door.The pneumatic hiss sealed the small space around her.She pulled the burner from her pocket.
Another one.Female, mid-twenties.SPT-7 again.Same doctor.Some paramedics I’ve never seen.Janet is in the room with them.They moved my patient out of bay two without asking me.
The response came in eleven seconds.
Don’t engage.Document what you can.I’m close.
Three sentences.No wasted words.She’d started to recognize the rhythm of him through text—the way he stripped language down to its function, the way she stripped a chart down to its data.Nothing extra.Nothing ornamental.
She pocketed the phone and went back to work.