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Marina waits until we turn into the quieter service corridor before lowering her voice. “The pharmacist wasn’t nervous because of the vial.”

I stop. “What makes you say that?”

“He signed out two boxes of sedatives last week under patient numbers that don’t exist.”

“How do you know?”

“I was checking the access log when⁠—”

My pager sounds against my hip.

FOURTH FLOOR. POSTOPERATIVE BLEEDING. SURGEON REQUIRED.

A nurse leans out from the station ahead. “Dr. Markova, they need you now.”

I’m already moving. “Don’t ask anyone else about the vial until I get back.”

Marina folds her arms. “You know I’ll think about it all day.”

“Think quietly.”

The stairwell door closes behind me before she can answer.

Earlier, Marina mentioned a few patient transfers that didn’t make sense. Different wards, the same ambulance company, names and dates that didn’t quite match. I told her I’d look at them later. I simply hadn’t had time.

The postoperative bleed takes nearly an hour to control. Before I finish dictating the report, trauma calls me downstairs for a man with a stab wound beneath his ribs. We get him into surgery before the blood around his liver can finish what the knife started.

I’m washing his blood from my hands when another pager goes off. A woman has fallen from a second-floor balcony, and the scan shows bleeding around her spleen.

By the time she’s stable, I’ve read the same line in her file three times without understanding a word. I meet Marina on my way to the elevators. She studies my face as we walk, then glances down at my unsteady steps.

“You should sleep here,” she says. “At least for a few hours.”

“I have a child.”

“You also have pupils that no longer agree on where to look.”

“They’re tired of each other.” I press the elevator button.

“You’re not driving home.”

“I’m perfectly capable of driving.”

“I’m calling you a taxi.”

I turn toward her, but she’s already taking out her phone. “Marina.”

“No. You’re too tired, and you almost walked into a medicine cart. I won’t let you die because you fall asleep while driving.”

The elevator arrives, and we step inside beside a wheelchair, a patient wearing a bandage over his right eye, and an orderly who stares at the numbers above the doors. Marina taps at her screen.

“There,” she says, shutting off her phone. “You’ll thank me later.”

She squeezes my arm as we reach the staff exit. “Your taxi is four minutes away, and I’m standing here until you get into it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”