Call an ambulance right now, Marcus—my daughter’s water just broke on your mother’s marble floor! I screamed, kneeling over Maya as fluid flooded her silk dress.
St. Jude Memorial Hospital was a blur of sterile white and hushed urgency. Maya was whisked away, a team of nurses and doctors surrounding her gurney. I followed, trying to keep pace, my mind a whirlwind of fear for Maya and simmering rage at Marcus.
As they wheeled Maya into an emergency surgical suite, a stocky man in a rumpled suit intercepted a nurse carrying a tray of tubes. “Excuse me, these are for the standard intake blood panel, correct?”
Derrick Albright. Senior Risk Manager. His name was notorious for making problems disappear within the hospital’s bureaucratic labyrinth. He rarely left his administrative tower. His presence here, on the trauma floor, was jarring.
The nurse nodded, busy with her clipboard. “Yes, including the fetal blood draw. Mandatory for all high-risk deliveries.”
Albright’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Excellent. I’ll personally ensure these are processed efficiently. We have new protocols for expedited processing.” He took the tray from her, his movements smooth, almost practiced.
But his eyes flickered to a biohazard disposal container near the wall.
I knew that container. It was for contaminated waste, not fresh samples. My pulse quickened. My position as Senior Bioethics Director granted me executive authority. I had to act.
“Mr. Albright,” I said, my voice cutting through the clinical drone. “Release those specimens to me immediately.”
He flinched, turning slowly. His face held a practiced mask of polite surprise. “Dr. Washington. What a… surprise to see you here on the floor. I’m just assisting with standard intake procedures.”
“Standard procedure does not involve diverting critical fetal blood panels into biohazard disposal,” I countered, stepping closer. “Those samples belong to the lab, not your ‘expedited processing’ bin.”
He tightened his grip on the tray. “There must be a misunderstanding, Doctor. These are simply being relocated for proper handling.”
I knew he was stalling, trying to find an angle. I saw him glance at the biohazard bin again.
“There’s no misunderstanding,” I said, reaching for the tray. “As Senior Bioethics Director, I am authorizing a duplicate sample collection for independent analysis. Hand them over.”
Our hands met on the edge of the tray. For a moment, it was a silent battle of wills, his desperation against my authority. Then, with a subtle shift of weight, I dislodged a small cold transport box from a nearby supply cart.
“Nurse,” I snapped, pulling a duplicate placenta sample container from the tray just as Albright fumbled. “Prepare this for off-site transport. Immediately. Do not let this area be sterilized.”
Albright’s eyes narrowed, but the nurse, recognizing my rank, moved quickly. He stood frozen, the remaining tubes still in his hand, as the nurse placed my secured sample into the cold box. He had intercepted the draw, but I had secured my own.
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