I've been staring at it for six minutes.
"I'm really sorry, Ms. Turner." Gianna's nails click against her keyboard, the sound sharp and rhythmic. "I just can't find your clearance in the system."
"It was there two weeks ago."
"I understand that." Click, click, click. "But the system shows your access as suspended pending review."
"Pending review of what?"
She doesn't meet my eyes. The clicking stops for a second. "I'm not authorized to discuss that."
Behind me, the security queue grows. A delivery driver shifts his weight. A nurse I don't recognize checks her phone. I'mholding up the line, and Gianna's polite expression says she'd very much like me to stop.
But I don't move.
"Can you tell me who is authorized to discuss it?"
"You'd need to speak with Dr. Hudson's office."
"Dr. Hudson's office hasn't returned my calls in thirteen days."
Click, click, click. "I can leave another message for you."
Gianna's fingers hover over the keyboard. She's looking at the screen, not at me, and her mouth is pressed flat. She's not the problem. She's doing what she's been told, and pushing harder may not change that.
"Gianna." I keep my voice level. "I was court-appointed to this facility. My access isn't discretionary. I'm legally allowed to be here."
"I understand that, Ms. Turner." The clicking resumes. "But until the paperwork clears—"
"What paperwork?"
Silence.
"I really am sorry," she says finally, and she sounds like she means it. "There's nothing I can do."
I walk out through the lobby and sit in my car with the windows down and my notebook open.
Thirteen days of attempted contact. Fourteen unanswered calls. Six emails that bounced back with auto-replies about high volume and processing delays. The new sign at the checkpoint. Gianna's inability to locate paperwork that existed before the incident.
The pattern is clear. Someone is blocking me out, and they're using bureaucracy to do it.
My phone buzzes. Kent's name on the screen.
"They won't let me in," I say instead of hello.
"I know. I've been on the phone with their legal department since seven this morning." His voice is tight, controlled in that way that means he's furious underneath. "They're claiming your presence creates a security risk following the incident."
"I'm the security risk." My hand tightens on the phone. "Rick threatens to follow me home and I'm the problem."
"That's their position. Your presence provoked the incident. Your documentation is adversarial. Your continued access to Ward C is—and I'm quoting—'contraindicated for patient stability.'"
The steering wheel is warm under my hands. Heat pours in through the open windows and the whole parking lot ripples with it.
"They're punishing me for being the person their own guard threatened."
"They're punishing you for documenting everything they've done wrong for two months." His voice is grim. "Rick gave them the excuse. Your reports are the real problem."
A security guard walks past, doesn't look at me.
