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“I’d like to make my son’s breakfast,” I say, opening the refrigerator.

“Of course.” Mrs. Wentworth steps aside without taking offense. “Please use anything you need.”

“I don’t need permission to make my son breakfast.”

Mrs. Wentworth smooths her skirt. “In this house, Doctor, permission and information are often confused. I’m giving you information.”

Misha holds up his car. “It needs jam.”

Her mouth twitches. “Then the matter is urgent.”

Lidiya has laid out bread, eggs, fruit, yogurt, and enough cheese for a small wedding. She waves me away from the stove, then changes her mind when I pick up the frying pan.

“You cook?” she asks.

“I keep a child alive between night shifts,” I reply, tying an apron around my waist.

“That wasn’t my question.”

I crack eggs into a bowl. “Yes.”

She cuts strawberries while I make toast, and Misha sits at the counter lining up spoons from shortest to longest. When I put scrambled eggs on his plate, he pushes them toward the yellow car.

“Cars don’t eat eggs,” I tell him, sliding the plate back.

“This one does.”

Lidiya leans close to him. “Does it also drink milk?”

Misha considers the glass. “Yes. It needs milk to go fast.”

“Very sensible,” she says, returning to the strawberries.

My phone lies beside the cutting board, and I pick it up when Misha begins eating. Two residents have sent updates. One patient’s fever is down, another has finally urinated after surgery, and the man from yesterday’s motorcycle crash is asking when he can walk.

I answer each message, then call the surgical desk.

A tired resident picks up. “Trauma.”

“It’s Dr. Markova,” I say, pressing the phone between my shoulder and ear. “How is Petrenko’s pressure?”

“Stable since six,” he replies, papers rustling near him. “No new bleeding.”

“Keep the repeat scan for noon unless his pressure drops.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

I ask about two more patients, then check the morning handover thread. Marina usually sends the overnight update before seven, even when there’s nothing beyond stable vitals and complaints about breakfast. Alexei discharged himself against medical advice, but she still has two of my postoperative patients on her floor.

There’s no report today.

I open her contact and type, No morning handover. Is everything all right?

The message shows one check. No reply comes.

I stare at it. She has never done this before.

Marina has always been there when I needed her.