The monitor still shows a straight line. An assistant is silently walking away with a defibrillator, which has already done its job regardless of the result. Outside, the rain patters on the windows as if it knows something we don't.
Death came after the hospital's code red was activated. I didn't run, it's not my style, and it's contrary to the right thing to do; besides, I'm not part of the early response team. "Cardiorespiratory arrest. Patient 419, hallway C."
My name is Alma Balmaceda Larraín. I am a doctor and I work in the quality area of the hospital. I no longer see patients directly, but I understand the logic of the corridors, the times, the signatures, the silences. At this point, what matters most to me is how a story holds up in a record. I'm on this shift because my friend Claudia asked me to cover for her; I work during the day: only today I did a night shift.
I went in thinking it would be a routine check: see a certificate, a signature, a quick conversation to close the night register. Nothing I hadn't done before. But as I went in, things felt too seamless.
The sign-in sheet was already signed. The clinical report, printed out. The assistant avoided my gaze. No one seemed to want to stay in the room any longer than necessary. The code staff were already ready to return to their unit; I watched them walk away with the restrained haste of someone who complies and leaves. Then I saw him.
Tomás Varela, an ER nurse, with the body image most befitting a manager: tall, still, wavy, short, dark brown hair, blue eyes as cold as the ocean, back straight and broad, as if he had the wrong profession. He glanced sideways at me for a moment; my reflection in the glass confirmed the usual: brown eyes, black hair and white complexion. He looked at the body with a neutral expression. Impossible to tell if he was processing what had just happened or if he had seen it too many times. His eyes gave nothing away, as if he knew how to manage his emotions at will.
He did not welcome me. As I approached, he watched me as if he already knew what I was going to say; if he was surprised to see me at that hour, he didn't show it.
-Who was in charge of the patient? -I asked, noting.
-I was," he answered without looking away.
His countenance was cold, his voice calm, as if he had not been involved in the resuscitation, as if he were only giving me an irrelevant clinical fact.
-What happened?
-He collapsed, with no previous signs. The indicated drugs were administered according to her requirements and her vitals at the last check were stable; saturation within range, nothing to foresee this.
At that moment, a nurse intern crossed behind him, tripped over the trolley cable and went forward without saying anything. Tomas grabbed her in one movement, wrapped his forearm around her waist and straightened her up before she hit the ground. For a second I saw the precise tension in his arms - dry, marked - and the ease with which he held back the weight of others. The intern mumbled a 'thank you', blushed and left at a brisk pace, settling the cable at its base. Tomas didn't change his tone or gesture; he returned to the file as if the manoeuvre was part of the procedure.
I looked up. The intensity of his gaze stopped me in my tracks for half a second. His eyes didn't ask or explain, as if they were assessing me.
-Were resuscitation manoeuvres applied?
-Yes. For fifteen minutes, with the early response team. By the time you arrived, we had confirmed death.
There was something familiar about his manner: just the right distance, neither invasive nor obsequious. As if you knew exactly how much space I occupied.
-Do we know each other? -I blurted out.
I thought I saw his jaw barely tense. He faked a faint smile; a glint shone in his eyes that faded immediately. It must have been exhaustion making me see things where there aren't any.
-Not officially, Doctor.
The answer said more than it seemed. It bothered me that I didn't know why. We worked in the same hospital; maybe we'd crossed paths in corridors or at conferences.
-I'm going to review this case personally," I said.
-Of course.
I turned to leave. The others were already going back to work. I took a few steps and he added, as if speaking to himself:
-Some bodies don't tell you when they give up. Life becomes unbearable and you stop fighting, it's as simple as that.
I stopped. His tone held me for a second, as if part of me wanted to leave and part of me wanted to be trapped in his voice, reversing roles.
-Do you think so?
-I've seen it.
He added nothing, simply shrugged his shoulders, as if his experience was more than enough. It left me with the sentence floating. His assurance made me feel watched, like when someone knows something about you that you haven't yet formulated.
When I closed the door, I had the impression that the investigation had already begun before I arrived. And yet, what disturbed me most was not the death, but the order that surrounded it.
I was left alone with the register. The papers had a faint smell of fresh toner. There were no amendments. The vital signs were traced in impeccable handwriting, not an abbreviation out of place. The monitor, now mute, still took its place as a voiceless mouth. The night's TENS was watching me from the doorway; when I looked at her, she lowered her eyes and said she had other patients. I didn't hold her back.
At the bedside, an unused bandage lay on the tray. In the wastebasket, two gloves coiled on themselves looked like little sleeping snakes. I opened the crash cart: inventory complete. I closed it. I touched the bed rail: cold. Nothing was off script. Nothing showed its stitching.
I left C Wing with my notebook pressed to my chest. When I turned in the shift and described the night's events, I slipped away to my home. I needed rest and distraction. I drove with Phil Collins playing low; it lent me just the right amount of energy to get home.
At the flat I was greeted by Wilson, my dog, the four-legged friend I adopted as a puppy who ran into me between cars. His tail never tires of celebrating. I scratched his head and he followed me like a faithful satellite to the flat door.
The uniform smelled like a hospital: disinfectant, medicines, recirculated air, insomnia and surrendering bodies. I left it folded next to the laundry; I don't tolerate repeating uniforms, but I wasn't going to wash them now either.
I had just enough breakfast, I thought about coffee, but that day I'd come to sleep. The emptiness in my stomach was too much like anxiety. I turned on the TV and turned it off after three minutes. I had no energy to choose.
I took a bubble bath to see if I could let go of the night. Pajamas. Bed. Wilson insisted on crawling under the blanket, pushing with his head until he found his niche.
I thought I would fall asleep instantly, but I didn't. Thoughts mingled, jostling my mood and pushing sleep away. I retraced the steps from the time I arrived at the hospital until I handed in my shift. The feeling persisted: in Psychiatry everything was too orderly. No one went outside the protocol. And that, precisely, made me uncomfortable. It's not that I expect things to go wrong; it's just that here everything seemed destined to happen as it did, as if the team, without saying so, expected it.
I picked up my mobile phone and texted Claudia, my friend:
-Heavy shift, you owe me an outing.
She didn't answer right away. That's her style. When it's urgent, she shows up; when it's not, the clock is ticking. I was still relieved to write to her.
I walked around the flat as if looking for something. I didn't find it. It wasn't the death itself, it was the way it was assumed. A dead body in psychiatry is never simple, but they treated this one as if it were. Wilson looked at me with a 'come and lie down' look on his face. I half-heartedly obeyed; I made myself a glass of water and went back to bed.
I remembered Tomas's look. His voice. I remembered that he seemed to know I was coming. I remembered everything about him, though I pushed that thread away. It wasn't the point. (It was funny to think that, at that hour, I was the one reading dark novels to clear the hospital, not the other way around.)
I opened the notebook on the bedside table and jotted down:
'See what wasn't done, not what was done.'
Sometimes medicine isn't about saving; it's about asking why no one tried to do it. And in quality I get to respond to every notification, to update protocols when things go wrong. This time everything was so by-the-book it bordered on suspicious.
I covered my shoulders. I closed my eyes and at last, sleep found me.
I awoke to the sun daring through the crack. Wilson was already sitting on the edge of the bed, guardian of my awakenings. In the kitchen, the kettle sang its water ready; I dropped the coffee like black rain on the French press. The first sip gave me back a piece of the world.
I opened the window. The air was washed with night. The street seemed different, less anxious. In the building across the street, a neighbour hung clothes with a meticulousness that reminded me of the early morning vital signs charts. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Perfect is tiring too.
I returned to the table with my coffee and notebook. I reread my note. I drew a box around it and wrote underneath: "Check: times, calls, who was there, who was not. Ask about what's missing." Asking questions is a craft that is also learned.
I took a second shower, more to ground myself than out of necessity. The mirror returned a haggard but precise face: brown eyes, black hair and a fair complexion. I put on jeans, a black T-shirt, a gabardine jacket. In my pocket, the blue ink pencil that never leaves me. I took my badge. Wilson followed me to the door. 'I'll be back,' I said. I always tell him the same thing, as if he understands the difference between going out and coming back.
The hospital at noon is another animal. Round hours bring family members, feeding carts, drama-free shift changes. I went up to Quality first. The mail was waiting for me with its order: one message from Processes, one from Pharmacy, three from Legal Clinic. Nothing urgent. Nothing that would take me off the route.
I went down to Archives in search of the physical file of 419. Sometimes the paper breathes where the screen does not. The archivist greeted me with the courtesy of someone who knows that the memory of the hospital passes through her hands. I asked her for the file, and she handed it to me on a tray with the respect of someone who hands over ashes. I took it to a table by the window.
The pages slid out like marked cards: admissions, check-ups, interconsultations. Everything in order. The handwriting in the infirmary was the same throughout the entire critical stretch; the ER usually records only one person per stretch, so I wasn't surprised. Still, I made a note of it to cross-reference it with the shift changes. I mentally underlined that continuity.
I found Tomás's note: dry, impeccable, with an ecosystem of abbreviations that any auditor would envy. "Patient collapses without previous signs. Code is activated. CPR 15 minutes. Death is confirmed. Treating team is informed." It's perfect. So perfect I got cold.
I asked for the medication sheet. The time of the last control coincided with the medical re-evaluation. Everything fit together like pieces of a puzzle that someone had put together with gloves. I closed the file and handed it back. The archivist smiled at me without asking. I thanked her quietly.
In the cafeteria, steam rose like a prayer. I ordered a short coffee and a glass of water. As I waited, I felt a glance fall on me. It was him again. Tomas, with his tray, stopped two tables away. He didn't approach. He watched me just long enough, as if counting my blinks. I looked away. Not because I was intimidated, but because I was uncomfortable with what my body was doing with that discomfort.
I took my coffee to a table by the wall. I opened my notebook. 'Have we met?' I wrote, as if putting it in ink would take some of the burden off. Underneath I added, 'I'll recognise him next time.' Wilson, miles away, was probably sleeping in the sun.
I went back up to Quality. In the corridor, I passed Veronica from Psychiatry. We exchanged a brief greeting. On her desk, the news book was open like an intimate diary. I felt like asking about the evening, but now was not the time. I saved the question for another day.
The afternoon was folded up in reports, calls and a couple of despicable meetings. The usual. But in the background, like a stone in my shoe, the 419 was still there. In the first line I put: 'Full adherence to the protocol is observed'. In the second: 'Check absences: what was missing?' And, without wanting to, I heard his voice again: some corps don't give notice when they surrender. I was angry that I didn't know if he was talking about the patient or about me.
I switched off the computer in the evening. The hospital finally gave me back the street. I drove without music. I thought about calling Claudia, but I waited: I preferred to see her in person and not on the phone. I felt, for the first time in a long time, that something had moved an inch inside me. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't relief. It was direction.
The night at home was simple. Wilson demanded his walk. We walked around the neighbourhood with the cold wind getting into our sleeves. I tossed him the ball three times; by the fourth, he was bored and preferred to sniff the edges of the pavement. We went back. I made a quick soup; the steam steamed up the kitchen windows and gave me, for an instant, a white wall without a past.
On the table, I arranged the notebook, the credential and a pencil. I wrote a list without numbers:
- Return to C Wing in the daytime.
- Ask for exact shift change times.
- Check the Archives for previous copies of the report (print stamps).
- Talk to Veronica unannounced.
- Note down smells, shadows, gestures (everything the paper doesn't capture).
The mobile rang. It was a message from Claudia: "Coffee tomorrow. You talk, I listen." I smiled. Sometimes you don't need more than that: a table, two cups, a friend who makes the full stop when you're chained.
I put the notebook away. I didn't open any series or books. I sat for a moment on the edge of the bed with my bare feet touching the cold floor. I thought of Arthur. Of the numbers that would no longer say anything. Of the team that worked perfectly. Of the body, there, that gave up without warning. I closed my eyes. I promised myself to come back without warning too.
I lay down. Wilson settled next to me, weighing just enough. I slept with a jerk, like someone who knows that the thread was tied to the foot of the bed and will not escape during the night.
The next morning the hospital smelled of new chlorine. I arrived before the hour. I greeted the guard with the usual minimal gesture. I went up the stairs. I wanted to avoid the lift; the short distance between floors is good for thinking without interference. I walked towards C Wing. There was daylight coming in through the narrow windows; the corridor seemed shorter, more domestic. I stopped at the door to the living room. It was empty. They changed the sheet, rearranged the railing, took out the wastepaper basket. Silence, at that hour, was doing its job: erasing.
I took a mental picture of the place. On the wall, a peeling poster on hand hygiene stood like an old banner. The clock read 07:52. I heard footsteps behind me. It was Tomás. I wasn't surprised to see him; for some reason, his presence seemed to obey an alternate lane to mine.
-Is he back? -he asked, bluntly.
-Yes," I answered. I wanted to see him in the light.
-Light doesn't always help," he said, and leaned his back against the opposite wall.
-Does it help you?
-It depends on what you don't want to see.
I didn't know if this was a joke or a judgment. I didn't inquire. I made a mental note of his way of saying 'it depends,' as if everything could be twisted to the right angle.
-I need to confirm the name,' I said, 'Arturo Quintana.
-Yes,' he answered, 'Arturo Quintana.
The name went through me like a pin. To name someone is to return them to human territory. Sometimes the simplest step is the hardest.
-Thank you," I said.
We stood for a minute without speaking. There were voices in the corridor, a trolley wheel, the timid alarm of an infusion pump in another room. The hospital was breathing. So was I. I closed the notebook. I stepped back.
-See you," I said.
-See you, doctor.
I left. I didn't want to look back. I didn't want to give his presence any more power than necessary. I wrote in my notebook: "Arturo. Talk to family again. Check visiting hours."
The rest of the day was a tightrope between my duties and my stubbornness. In Quality, I kept chipping away at the chronology as if sorting buttons by size: this time this happened, this time that happened, this time the next. I opened a new folder with the name of the case and a provisional title: 'Uncertain diagnosis'. I realised that this title described me better than the patient. I smiled to myself. Sometimes humour is another way of not crying.
When I went outside, the rain had let up. The wind was blowing papers around the hospital entrance. Wilson was waiting for me at home as if not a minute had passed. I quietly told him the gist, as if the dogs could act as a sounding board. He yawned and showed me his belly. I scratched it. I relaxed.
I made myself some tea and, on impulse, put Phil Collins on again. The song sounded like the first time in the car, but different. I thought of the straight line of the monitor, of the peculiar silence of the rooms after a code, of Tomás's eyes that gave nothing away and seemed to know too much. I thought of Arturo. I thought about the perfect order of the register. I thought about how perhaps, in order to start a story, someone else had to finish theirs impeccably. I didn't like the exchange, but I understood the usefulness: the hospital works like that, with the current currency of lives that intersect without knowing each other.
I promised myself two things before going to sleep. One: not to fall in love with hypotheses. Two: not to let the paper decide for me what I saw. And so, with those promises as small as stones in my pocket, I went to bed with the certainty that, the next day, I would pull the thread again from the same place: the hours, the absences, the invisible stitching of a perfect record.
I closed my eyes. Sleep came with the swiftness of office. As I was leaving, I thought - or wanted to think - that some straight lines are not endings, they are just a different way of beginning.