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“That is correct.”

“We need to talk to her.”

“I know.”

“Together. United front. We explain – calmly, rationally – that the timeline for children is our decision, and that weaponising hospital staff is not an acceptable method of lobbying for grandchildren.”

“Agreed.”

“When?”

“She’s on until 18:00. Break room at 17:30.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Preston.”

“Yeah?”

“Wear armour.”

The break room on the ER floor smells like reheated soup and resignation. There is a motivational poster on the wall that says “LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE.” Underneath it, someone with very small, very precise handwriting has written citation needed. Beneath that, someone who eats protein bars during surgery has added: it’s morphine. Neither line is signed. Neither needs to be.

Rosa is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and her reading glasses on, doing a crossword and radiating absolutely no idea why her son and son-in-law are standing in front of her with their arms crossed and their best serious faces on.

“Mama Ortiz,” I say.

“Mijo.” She doesn’t look up. “Sit.”

We sit. We had a plan. The plan was: I open, Luke reinforces, we present a united front of mature, adult boundary-setting. We rehearsed it in the elevator. I had talking points. Luke had a bullet-point list on his phone, which he memorised.

Rosa fills in a crossword clue. She sips her coffee. She waits.

The silence is tactical.

“Mama,” Luke says. His voice is steady. The voice he uses in the ER when he’s about to deliver news that someone doesn’t want to hear. “We need to talk about the baby thing.”

Rosa looks up. Her expression is open, pleasant, and completely unreadable. “What baby thing?”

“The campaign,” I say. “The one where you’ve been using hospital staff, patients, and a non-existent HR form to pressure us into having children.”

Rosa sets down her crossword pen. She folds her hands on the table. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You told my patient about my reproductive window,” I say. “During a clinical session. The woman has paranoid ideation, Rosa. She now thinks the grandchildren campaign is a government operation.”

“She sounds creative.”

“She drew a diagram.”

“Good for her. I knew I liked her.” Rosa picks up her coffee cup. Sips. “I haven’t told anyone anything. I’m a nurse. I chart. I eat my lunch. I mind my business.”

Luke leans forward. “You told Harmon about adoption. During a code.”

“I made a general observation about family services. It was educational.”

“You invented a form.”

“I suggested a form. The girl filled it out herself. That’s initiative. I should write her a commendation.”