The floor. My scrubs. My shoes. The purified white room had turned the color of something unholy.
Three different heart monitors sang the same haunting note, a long, unwavering flatline that carved itself into the back of my skull.
“Dr. Tariq,” Betsy said softly. “You have to call it.”
I didn’t answer. Icouldn’t. My mind was still clawing its way through the last fifty minutes—every suture, every clamp, every desperate adjustment that hadn’t been enough.
Robert looked up at the clock. “Time of death: eight-forty-two p.m.”
The words echoed against the walls, cruel in their finality.
Someone turned off the machines, one by one. The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all—it roared.
Robert’s hand closed around my arm. “Dr. Tariq,” he said, but it sounded far away. “Come on. Let’s step out.”
I didn’t move. My eyes were still fixed on the table, on the woman who’d come in terrified but alive, who’d told me she wasn’t ready becausetheyweren’t ready.
And she was right.
He tugged a little harder, dragging me toward the door as nurses swarmed around what was left behind. The smell of antiseptic mixed with blood clung to the back of my throat.
“Lilly.” His tone sharpened once we were in the hallway. “You’ve got to snap out of it. We have to go tell the husband.”
Tell him, as if the words could be contained in a single breath, as if anything I said could make sense of the fact that there were now three bodies where moments ago there had been three heartbeats.
Jennie Thompson was twenty-five. She’d had a nervous laugh and a birth plan typed in color-coded bullet points, and now—
My lungs tightened. My chest felt like it was caving in on itself.
Her babies, Luna and Logan, names picked out the moment she saw them on the ultrasound, andnow—
Robert’s hand landed on my shoulder. “Hey, listen to me. It wasn’t your fault, okay? You did everything right.”
I nodded because that’s what people did when there was no right way to respond. Then I started walking.
“Wait—” Robert called after me. “You don’t want to change first? You’re covered in—”
But I didn’t stop. My body was moving without my permission, every step taking me closer to the waiting room and further from the lives I couldn’t save.
The doors slid open with a hiss.
Mr. Thompson was on his feet before I could speak. His eyes went straight to my scrubs—crimson splattered across blue—and widened with dawning horror.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no, please—”
“Mr. Thompson,” I began, my voice fragile, a whisper masquerading as strength. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could, but there were too many complications—”
“There were no complications,” he snapped. “It wasyou. You were the problem. Youkilledthem.”
I flinched, my shoulders jerking as if I could physically dodge the accusation.
Robert stepped forward, his tone firm. “Sir, you’re out of line—”
But Mr. Thompson lunged, grief twisting into something feral. His hand shot out—not for my arm, not for my badge, but for myhijab. His fingers hooked into the fabric, yanking hard enough to snap my head back, the safety pin slicing into my skin before popping open. My messy bun sprung loose in an instant, and the scarf coiled around my neck in a makeshift noose. A strangled choke lodged in my throat, fear braided tightly with disbelief.
I gasped, trying to rip the fabric away so I could breathe, but he wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t stoppulling.
Robert intervened, wrenching him backward, breaking his grip so abruptly my hijab slipped free of his hand. Mr. Thompson stumbled, still shouting, still broken, as security rushed in to restrain him.
