Monday morning stretches out like an eyelid that refuses to open. The central hallway is filled with a gray, orderly light that makes the edges of the steel and the freshly scrubbed tiles shine. Before hanging up my jacket, I already have what I came for in my hands: the printed record of 419.
I shouldn't be here so early, but insomnia decided for me. Driving first thing in the morning clears my mind; the steering wheel puts my thoughts in order. Wilson watched me leave from the floor, half snort, half yawn, and curled up again as if he knew that at this hour I don't argue with anyone.
I place the folder on the now-empty nursing station counter. The smell of new paper mingles with the disinfectant; at this hour, everything promises cleanliness. I scan the page mechanically: date, time, procedure, indication. The usual... until I reach the last line.
"Dr. Cristian Gajardo."
I close my eyes for a moment. The signature fits, the ink fits, the time fits. And yet, something gnaws at me inside. The scene from that early morning comes back to me: the printed sheet, the cold light, the fan buzzing like an insect, the precise feeling of reaching an end that doesn't need me. In that memory, for a second, the name wasn't this one. I don't know what it was. I only know that my body told me something else.
I force myself to breathe slowly. It could be fatigue: I haven't worked night shifts in months; I only covered for Claudia that night. It could be the rain on the windows, the adrenaline, the code closing before I entered. It could be. My body insists nonetheless.
I walk to the central printer. I reprint the first version loaded into the system. The toner spits out an identical copy. Same text, same signature, same cola marks. I hold the paper up to the light as if the fibers could confess a secret. It's absurd—it just came out—but I do it anyway. Nothing shows up.
A sharp buzz announces the automatic door. At the end of the corridor, Gajardo himself appears, distracted by his phone. The impulse to approach him is sudden, almost irrational. What would I ask? If he signed something that he later changed? If someone reprinted the sheet? I don't have enough evidence to come up with a question that doesn't sound delusional. I stand still. He looks up, nods his chin, and continues on his way. The hallway, once again, is motionless.
I fold the copy and put it in the inside pocket of my blazer. It's not evidence; I don't even know if it's real. But its weight against the fabric reminds me that there are things that exist before we learn to name them.
In Quality, I open the digital log to document progress. The cursor blinks over "Observations." My fingers hover over the words: "Perceived inconsistency in signature." I don't do it. Typing it would turn the doubt into a trace, and today I don't want to leave crumbs for others to use to call me paranoid. Instead, I record the indisputable: "Continuity of medical instructions verified. No new developments." I save. I close. The emptiness doesn't go away; it just learns to sit still.
I go up to the break room. Coffee from the machine, water that doesn't quite boil, a cardboard cup that gets too hot. I lean against the window. From there I can see the inner courtyard: rows of parking spaces, trees that persist even with little soil, the slab scratched by the pale sun.
Tomás crosses the cement with his sober gait, dark blue suit, jacket buttoned up to the neck. He doesn't look up, but I feel that he knows I'm watching him. There are bodies that understand the weight of the air. I find myself squeezing the cup; the temperature bites my palm and I leave it on the shelf.
I leave the glass, go downstairs. In IT, I officially request the print logs from the early morning of the 28th. The technician—a man with long hands and courteous patience—explains the usual: physical backups, signatures, chain of custody. "It takes a couple of days," he says, as if time were measured the same on his desk as in my throat. I nod. I fill out the form, attach the Audit order, and sign without using too much ink. Outside, the hallway remains the same; inside, my body weighs an extra pound.
Noon brings the smell of bread that doesn't exist. In the cafeteria, I drink a glass of water and go out to the courtyard. Tomás is gone. A thrush perches on the railing and flies away. I repeat to myself like a medical phrase: "Don't fall in love with the hypothesis. Don't fall in love with the hypothesis." It doesn't always work.
I divide the afternoon between the Gatehouse—extraordinary income spreadsheet, supplier with temporary pass—and Maintenance—Roxana confirms the OT for cameras for that weekend and proposes a review with Audit present. I take notes without embellishment.
Claudia texts me: "Lunch tomorrow?" I reply with an emoji that seems to nod; sometimes words are unnecessary.
Before closing, I return to Monitoring with Audit. The technician replays the video. The black section—07:12 to 07:34—is a still animal that I have learned to look at without flinching. I file the preservation request and the case number. No one objects. No one offers anything I don't ask for.
I turn off the computer. I grab my jacket. In the elevator, I review the shift schedule, Veronica's finances, the restart time, the temporary pass, the overly correct signatures. Everything floats between suspicion and helplessness.
As I leave, the light filters through the trees at the entrance and casts rectangular shadows. On the concrete bench to the right, I see him: Tomás, no longer in uniform. He gives me a brief nod. I remember what I promised Claudia—at work, only work—and I keep walking. I cross the fence and walk to my car.
I drive home. Wilson greets me with his usual joy: two jumps and his snout against my hand. I hug him a second longer than usual.
I get changed. I open the kitchen window; the smell of bread that isn't mine wafts in. I put water on to boil for no reason, look at my phone and leave it face down. I turn on a lamp and turn off the main light.
I sit on the sofa with Wilson at my feet. I think about the case. I leave the rest aside: the coffee from days ago, the "I preferred not to think alone," the warning to watch my back. I don't repeat the scene; I stick with the edge. If I get too close, the distance disappears; if I move away completely, I lie to myself.
I bring my hand to my neck. There are no marks today. I take a deep breath. I close my eyes. I open them.
And then the memory doesn't go to Tomás or Arturo; it goes to another house.
Father dozing between bottles and news programs, a poorly called goal and the radio blaring, the bottle flying, the glass shattering into constellation points. Me curled up in the closet, elbow against knee, counting heartbeats so as not to lose myself in fear. The bathroom door bolted, the crack of my mother's silence deafening more than the screams. When it all stopped, I would go out to restore: line up pieces, dry liquor, return furniture to its exact place. My first surgery: erasing traces. Tidying up was surviving.
Years later, desire now takes the form of a man who looks at me with precision and speaks carefully, threatening to crack the structure that saved me then. I feel the old muscle memory: tense fingers, shallow breathing, my mind searching for flat surfaces to support what trembles.
I force myself to return to the center: Arturo Figueroa Sanz. The black section. The copies printed more than once. The shadow of "transfer." The approximate insistences. The supplier with a temporary pass. The camera OT. The system restarts. The promise of an audit. The intern roster. The pager that rings and no one answers.
I turn on the desk lamp. I open the notebook. I write in capital letters: "KEEP ASKING, EVEN IF THEY DON'T ANSWER." Below, a new list:
I close the notebook. I approach the window. The street looks like a blank sheet of paper. Tomorrow I'll arrive earlier. Sometimes gaining twenty minutes is winning everything. I turn off the lamp.
Before going to sleep, I close the notebook without any notes. I leave a paper clip holding the page with Arturo's name on it. I don't need a phrase: dawn is enough.