Chapter 2

Monday’s staff meeting opens with Daphne’s new title filling the screen: Daphne Cole, Interim Director of Pediatric Operations.

Lucas stands near the back wall while the staff applauds.

I search his face for a sign that the appointment surprised him too. He meets my eyes, and my chest loosens. Then he smiles at Daphne and begins to clap.

Last year, I applied for a similar position. I remember the blue light of my laptop in our dark bedroom and Lucas saying Ethan had already lost one mother. By the time he finished, wanting longer hours felt like asking a frightened child to lose something else.

My cursor hovered over Withdraw Application for a minute. When I clicked, Lucas kissed my temple and thanked me for being reasonable. I carried the word for months as proof I had protected my family.

Now he claps harder than anyone else.

My hands remain folded in my lap. My nails press into my palms, but the pressure is easier to manage than the shaking.

“I know I have a great deal to learn,” Daphne tells the room. “Fortunately, Lucas has helped me understand what this hospital needs.”

Several people glance at me. They know he is my husband; I have worked here twelve years.

Daphne advances the slide. A photograph of the pediatric art program fills the screen—the charity exhibit I spent six months building.

“I’ll also be overseeing our gala installation,” she says. “I’m excited to give the project a fresh direction.”

The screen blurs. I want to stand and claim it. I can already hear Lucas afterward: Kate became emotional. Kate embarrassed Daphne. Kate brought our marriage into work.

I stay seated. My throat aches with everything I do not say.

Lucas watched me call families after Ethan slept and stepped around consent forms covering our table. He knows whose work he is applauding.

After the meeting, I find the new schedule. Three management meetings now belong to Sarah, and two experienced nurses are gone from Thursday night before two high-risk admissions.

My name remains beside Nurse Manager, the title intact while the work is handed away.

I picture Thursday: two unstable children and no free hands. I want those nurses back.

I take the schedule to Daphne.

“Thursday is unsafe.”

She keeps typing. “The numbers meet minimum coverage.”

“Minimum coverage assumes nothing goes wrong.”

“You’ve had too much freedom with staffing. I’m correcting that.”

At seven that evening, a nurse calls in sick. One child’s oxygen level begins falling while another arrives from surgery. The call lights start faster than we can answer.

The first alarm proves I was right. There is no satisfaction in it. My stomach turns because a child is the proof.

I call in a float nurse.

Daphne arrives twenty minutes later, her heels striking the floor hard enough to turn heads.

“I denied additional staffing.”

“The unit changed.”

“You went around me.”

A monitor alarms behind her. The child beneath the oxygen mask pulls at the sheets, eyes wide. Whatever I wanted to say disappears.

I move past Daphne and help reposition the mask. I count each breath with the child until the number on the monitor rises.

When I turn back, Daphne is holding a printed form.

Failure to follow supervisory direction.

For a moment, I hear Lucas telling me to be reasonable. The reflex is so quick that my hand reaches for the paper before I read it.

I make myself read every line, then sign only to confirm receipt.

Before leaving, I photograph the schedule, staffing request, and warning and add them to the locked folder from last night. My hand is steady now.

I email the family coordinator: No patient artwork is to be released without written permission from the child’s guardian.

My thumb rests over Send. Lucas will call this another overreaction.

I press it anyway.