Story code: ST-001095
Part 4: The Empty Room
Marcus’s breathing became rapid, his collar shifting as he swallowed. “Wait, Dr. Vance. Let’s not escalate this. There’s no need for security. I think… I must have misunderstood the text message. I was stressed about Toby, and when the contact call came through, I panicked. I thought they said it was an emergency. I must have misread the details.”
“You told Chloe the recipient was failing,” I said, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
“I was mistaken,” Marcus said, his voice rising an octave as he backed away from the desk. “It was just a misunderstanding. I was trying to protect the family’s interests. I didn’t want the organ to go to a stranger if we missed the window. But if the doctor says the schedule is fine, then we follow the schedule. Obviously.”
“We will document the clarification,” I said. I pulled up the Transplant Unit Admission Log on my screen. Under protocol 402, I logged the formal interference event, entering Marcus’s name and relationship to the donor. My fingers tapped steadily on the keyboard, the sharp clicks the only sound in the room. “Because this involves a protocol verification check, Marcus, you are restricted from the East Wing waiting area for the remainder of the night. Security will have the log update at the main entrance.”
I pressed the print key. The small thermal printer behind the desk whirred, spitting out a narrow slip of paper. I signed it, stamped it with the unit seal, and placed it on the counter.
Marcus looked at the slip, then at Chloe. “Chloe, come on. Tell them. I was just trying to help. We’re family.”
Chloe did not look up. She kept her eyes on the floor, her thumbs tracing the embossed letters on the blue silicone band. She did not say a word.
Marcus waited for five seconds. He reached out as if to touch her shoulder, but stopped when I picked up the printed slip. He turned, his leather shoes squeaking against the polished floor as he walked toward the exit doors. The heavy glass doors swung shut behind him with a soft sigh.
I picked up the desk phone again. “Dr. Vance, the visitor has left the floor. The log has been updated, and the restriction is active.”
“Thank you, Jean,” the surgeon said, and the line went dead.
I sat back down behind the intake desk. The waiting room returned to its ordinary state-the steady hum of the ice machine in the corner, the pale yellow light on the linoleum, and the quiet. Chloe remained in her chair, her knees pulled together, holding the blue silicone donor bracelet in her lap. She did not cry, nor did she call anyone. The heavy, muted silence of the waiting wing settled over us, leaving only the slow, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock above the double doors.