Chapter 7
I'm in the medication room counting pills — thirty Dilaudid tabs in the drawer, same as last count.
Fourteen syringes prepped for the night.
Two bags of normal saline hanging on the rack.
This room is the only place in my life where the numbers never betray me.
What should be there is always there. Every pill accounted for.
Two nurses sign off on every controlled substance.
A system built on the assumption that people will steal if you don't watch them.
I wish marriages came with the same inventory controls.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I shouldn't check it during med count, but I do. It's from Heather — my lawyer.
I pocket the phone. Thirty Dilaudid. Fourteen syringes. Two saline bags. Count verified. I sign the sheet.
The night moves the way nights do — in waves.
A lull from midnight to 1 AM where the waiting room empties.
Then the bar crowd hits between 1 and 3.
Falls, fights, alcohol poisoning, one guy who punched a wall and fractured his fifth metacarpal.
I splint it. I don't think about my husband while I work — that's the gift of the ER.
It demands everything. There's no spare brain for personal catastrophe.
At 2:17 AM, Deborah corners me in the break room.
"You're different this week."
I pour coffee. Count the seconds the machine dispenses — seven. "Different how?"
"Quieter. More counted."
"I'm always counted."
"More than usual." She crosses her arms. Leans against the counter. "You eating?"
"Yes."
"Sleeping?"
"Yes."
"Lying to me?"
"No." I drink the coffee. It's terrible — break room coffee always is. "I'm handling something at home."
"Marco?"
Deborah knows Marco. He's picked me up from shifts when my car was in the shop. He brought the ER staff donuts once during a holiday. Everyone liked him. Generous Marco. Kind Marco.
"It's handled," I say.
She nods. She won't push. That's why I like working with her — she assesses, notes, and doesn't intervene unless the patient asks.
At 3:04 AM I'm at the nurses' station charting and I think about what Brooke said: "He offered. I didn't ask for all of it."
Not all of it. Not: I didn't ask for any of it. Not: I never took anything.
She said "all of it." Which means she asked for SOME of it. Just not the full $23,000. As if there's a morally acceptable threshold for how much you drain from your best friend's marriage. Twelve thousand — fine. Fifteen — pushing it. Twenty-three — too far.
I chart my patient's 3 AM vitals and I think about the escalation pattern. $200 first. Then $400. Then $500. Then $1,200. Each time, she tested the boundary. Each time, he moved it. She learned what he'd say yes to — and the number kept growing because he never said no.
I've seen this in the ER. Injuries that escalated over months — a bruise that "wasn't that bad," a fracture that "was an accident," each one slightly worse, each one slightly more normalized.
Brooke escalated Marco the same way. And he let it happen because stopping would mean looking back at everything he'd already given and calling himself a fool.
At 4 AM I take a break. Sit in the ambulance bay — cold air, quiet, the rumble of the hospital generator. I pull up the Zillow listing for Archer Street.
Still there. $289,000. Still available. The photos show a kitchen with white cabinets and a farmhouse sink. The yard has a big maple. The primary bedroom has two windows that face east — morning light.
I would've put my houseplants there. The pothos and the snake plant that live on our windowsill now, struggling for light in a north-facing apartment. They'd thrive in that room.
I close Zillow. The house isn't mine. It was never mine — it was a number I was building toward. $32,000. And now that number is destroyed and the house is just photos on a screen.
I go back inside. The rest of the shift is steady. A child with croup at 5 AM — steroid, observation, parents terrified but the kid is fine. A seventy-year-old woman with chest pain that turns out to be GERD, not cardiac. I reassure her. She thanks me. She says "you're so calm, dear."
I'm calm because I put all my chaos into numbers. The chaos has a container: $23,000. Everything else I can control.
At 6:55 AM I give report. Amy listens, nods, takes notes. I walk out. Forty-three steps. The dawn is pink and gold over the parking lot — a beautiful morning that I'll sleep through.
In my car I check my phone before driving.
A text from Marco, 11:02 PM last night: I talked to my brother about picking up weekend work. He says he can get me on his crew. Saturdays and Sundays. I'm going to earn it back.
A text from Rosie, 7:15 AM: Thinking about you. Call me when you wake up. Love you.
And a text from Brooke. Sent at 6:48 AM — seven minutes ago.
I know you're angry. But I want you to know — it wasn't just money to me. Marco made me feel safe. I haven't felt safe in a long time. I'm sorry it came at your expense. I'll sign whatever your lawyer sends.
I read it three times.
"Marco made me feel safe."
She's positioning herself as a victim. Not of me — of life. Of her divorce. Of her circumstances. The money wasn't opportunism — it was a lifeline to a drowning woman. That's what she wants me to believe.
And maybe there's a grain of truth in it. Maybe she really was drowning in February. But by June she had a furnished apartment, a maintained car, a social life, and a man bringing her dinner on Thursdays. That's not drowning. That's floating. On my money.
I don't reply. I drive home. Fourteen streetlights. Six stop signs. The truck is gone — Marco left for his brother's crew already. Good.
I lock the door. Set my alarm. Get into bed.
Before I close my eyes I check the banking app. $24,418. Same as yesterday. No new transfers. The bleeding has stopped.
Now I just need to close the wound.