Dr. Patel entered holding a syringe and a vial.

Hannah read the label and froze.

She looked down at the chart. Then she pointed to the allergy warning. Then to Grace’s wristband. Then back to the vial.

No. Not right.

Dr. Patel waved her aside as if she were in the way.

Hannah stepped between his hand and the IV port, her palms raised, pleading.

Dr. Patel leaned close and said something sharp. Hannah flinched and moved aside.

He pushed the medication.

Grace’s body jerked. The monitor numbers spiked, then dropped sharply.

Staff rushed into the room and blocked most of the view, but I could still see Grace’s arm with the red band sliding off the side of the bed.

Someone looked up at the camera in the corner.

Someone reached toward it.

The screen went black.

A sound escaped my throat that I didn’t recognize. I slapped my hand over my mouth.

But the video wasn’t finished.

The footage cut to a small conference room.

Dr. Patel sat at a cheap table, his hands clenched.

Across from him sat a man in a suit wearing a hospital badge. His name tag read “Mark.”

This part had audio.