At first, I couldn’t process it. A figure stood at Ellie’s bedside—someone in scrubs, face turned away from the door. One hand was near Ellie’s IV pump, fingers moving with deliberate precision. Ellie lay still, her head turned slightly toward the window, eyes closed.
My brain tried to soothe itself: It’s a nurse. They’re checking the drip. That’s normal. But something was wrong in the way the figure moved—too slow, too focused, like they didn’t want to make a sound.
Then I noticed the badge. It was flipped backward, the plastic card turned so the name couldn’t be read.
My heart started pounding so hard it felt like it was vibrating in my teeth.
The figure leaned closer, and I saw their other hand holding a small syringe. No tray. No gloves. No alcohol swab. Just a syringe, angled toward the IV port.

I pushed the door open.
The hinge squeaked—just a little—but enough.
The figure froze. For one long second, we stared at each other across Ellie’s bed. Under the dim light, I recognized her. Megan. The nurse from earlier.
Her expression wasn’t startled the way you’d expect from someone interrupted during routine care. It was flat, annoyed—like I’d walked in on something private.
“What are you doing?” I demanded, my voice cracking with anger and fear.
Megan recovered quickly. Too quickly. She slid the syringe behind her thigh in a reflex that screamed guilt. “Sir, you’re not allowed in here this late,” she said, as if I was the problem.
I stepped to Ellie’s bedside, placing myself between Megan and my daughter. I forced myself not to grab the syringe—sudden moves could escalate—but every muscle in my body wanted to.
“Answer me,” I said. “Why do you have a syringe in your hand?”
“It’s medication,” she replied smoothly. “Your daughter is scheduled for—”