Ch.15: Nurse Greta's Secret

The keycard beeps. The heavy steel door groans open.

It’s Greta.

She shuffles in, her hazmat suit replaced by standard-issue blue scrubs. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are rimmed with red, her skin sallow under the harsh fluorescent lights.

She is carrying a new IV bag. The morning dose.

I am ready for her.

I lie perfectly still. My eyes are fixed on the ceiling, unblinking, glassy. I slow my breathing to the absolute minimum—shallow, imperceptible sips of air. I relax every muscle in my face, letting my jaw hang slightly slack.

The "corpse pose." I've perfected it over the last two weeks.

Greta doesn't look at me. She keeps her head down, focused on the floor. She drags her feet.

She reaches the bed and hangs the bag on the pole. Her hands are shaking. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence.

She checks the monitor. *52 BPM.*

"Still alive," she whispers. It’s not a celebration. It’s a lament.

She reaches for my arm to check the IV site. Her fingers are cold. Clammy.

I don't react.

She unwraps the tape securing the catheter. She cleans the site with an alcohol wipe. The smell is sharp, stinging my nose.

Then, she stops.

She doesn't re-tape it. She just stands there, holding my limp hand.

A tear drops onto my wrist.

It’s hot. Wet.

Another tear follows. Then another.

She is crying.

She isn't just weeping. She is sobbing. Her shoulders shake. A low, keening sound escapes her throat.

"I'm sorry," she chokes out. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Vane."

She squeezes my hand.

"I didn't know he was going to take the eye. I didn't know."

She drops my hand and covers her face. She sinks to the floor, her back sliding down the metal cabinet. She pulls her knees to her chest and rocks back and forth.

"I can't do this anymore," she wails. "I can't be the one who keeps you alive for this."

I listen. I watch her from the corner of my eye.

This is new. This is a crack in the armor.

Greta isn't a monster. She’s an accomplice. And accomplices break.

She pulls a crumpled photo out of her scrub pocket. She stares at it. She kisses it.

"Leo," she whispers. "My sweet Leo."

Leo. Her son. The six-year-old who plays soccer.

"He promised me," she sobs to the empty room. "He said if I did the night shifts... if I kept the logs... he'd get you into the trial. He'd fix your lungs."

My heart skips a beat. *55 BPM.*

Aris isn't paying her money. He's paying her in hope.

Her son is sick. Cystic fibrosis? Leukemia? Something terminal. Something expensive.

And Aris, the great philanthropist, the medical god, promised a miracle.

"But he lied," Greta cries. "He's not helping anyone. He's a butcher. And I'm helping him carve."

She looks at the photo again. Her expression changes. The grief hardens into something darker. Despair.

"He said if I quit... he stops the treatment. He said Leo dies within a week without the ventilator."

She isn't just an employee. She is a hostage.

Aris has her son.

She stands up. She wipes her face with her sleeve, smearing snot and tears. She puts the photo back in her pocket.

She walks over to the bed. She looks down at me.

"I should just kill you," she whispers. "It would be a mercy. For both of us."

She reaches for the dosage dial on the pump. Her hand hovers over the button that would increase the flow rate. An overdose. A quiet, painless slip into darkness.

My heart hammers. *58 BPM.*

*Do it,* a part of me screams. *End it.*

But another part—the part that heard my daughter call a stranger "Mommy"—screams louder.

*No. Not yet. I have work to do.*

Greta’s finger trembles on the button.

"I can't," she whimpers. "I'm not a killer."

She pulls her hand away.

She leans in close to my ear. Her breath is shaky.

"Forgive me," she whispers. "I have to choose him. I have to choose my son."

She turns to leave.

She takes one step. Two.

I make my move.

I focus every ounce of will on my right hand. The Rocuronium level is at its lowest point in the cycle. The window is closing, but it’s still open a crack.

I curl my index finger.

I tap the metal bed rail.

*Clink.*

It’s a small sound. Tiny. But in the silence of the basement, it’s a gunshot.

Greta freezes.

She turns around slowly. Her eyes are wide, terrified.

"Mrs. Vane?"

I tap again.

*Clink. Clink.*

She stares at my hand. She sees the finger moving.

She walks back to the bed. She leans over me.

"You're... you're awake?"

I can't speak. My vocal cords are frozen. But I can blink. Just barely. A flutter of the eyelids.

I look at her. I catch her gaze and hold it. I pour every ounce of intensity, every ounce of intelligence I possess into that stare.

*I am here. I am listening.*

Greta gasps. She covers her mouth.

"Oh god. You heard me."

I tap the rail again. One hard, deliberate strike.

*Yes.*

She looks at the door. She looks at the camera in the corner. The red light is blinking.

"He'll see," she hisses. "He watches."

I blink slowly. I look at the blind spot under the camera. I look at her pocket where the photo is.

She understands.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small notepad and a pen. She keeps her body between the camera and my face. She writes something down.

**CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME?**

She holds it up.

I tap once. *Yes.*

She writes again. Her hand is shaking so hard the letters are jagged.

**DO YOU KNOW ABOUT LEO?**

I tap once. *Yes.*

She stares at me. The tears start falling again.

"He has him," she whispers. "He keeps him in the East Wing. In the sterile room. I can only see him on weekends."

The East Wing. The "renovated" section of the house that has been sealed off for months. Aris told me it was due to asbestos.

He built a prison for a sick child inside my own home.

Greta looks at me with a desperate, wild hope.

"You're the only one who knows," she says. "The police... they think you're brain dead. They think Aris is a saint."

I tap the rail.

*Clink-clink-clink.*

Three times. Rapidly.

*Listen.*

I look at the IV bag. Then I look at her.

She follows my gaze.

"The drug?"

I look at the dosage dial. I look at her.

She frowns. "You want me to change it?"

I tap once.

"If I lower it, you'll wake up," she whispers. "You'll feel everything."

I stare at her. I don't blink.

*I already feel everything, you idiot. I need to move.*

She hesitates. She looks at the camera again.

"If he finds out..."

I look at her pocket. At the photo.

*He has your son. I am the only one who can save him.*

It’s a gamble. A massive, terrifying gamble. I am betting my life on a mother's love for her child.

Greta looks at me. She sees the fire in my one good eye. She sees the scientist, the wife, the mother who has been skinned alive and refused to die.

She takes a deep breath.

She reaches for the pump.

She doesn't turn the dial. That would show up on the digital log.

Instead, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small vial of saline.

She injects it directly into the bag.

Dilution.

She is watering down the poison.

She looks at me. Her eyes are fierce now.

"Get strong," she whispers. "Get strong and kill him."

She tucks the notepad back into her pocket. She wipes her face. She assumes the posture of the defeated nurse.

She walks out of the room.

The door closes.

I lie in the darkness.

I feel the new mix entering my veins. It’s weaker. Lighter.

Leverage. I finally have leverage.