The cold dawn seeps through the blinds and casts the bedroom in shades of gray. Wilson snores, oblivious to the tension that has kept me awake since four o'clock. I reread the email from management on my phone, sliding my finger up and down as if the words could be rearranged: case solved, file closed.
I wonder if it's worth demanding formal arguments. A hearing? A memo? Every scenario ends the same: closed doors. But the buzzing in my temples persists; I can't allow the truth to be buried under institutional rugs.
"I'll go anyway." As I say it quietly, the phrase takes on a weight of its own.
I get up. Ice-cold water on my face, the edge of the razor running along my eyelid. I put my hair up in a severe bun, minimal makeup: clean contours that suggest order when inside there are only ruins. I put on my graphite blouse and black blazer—my armor of confrontation—then add the metal watch that ticks away the seconds like a metronome of war.
Wilson tilts his head when I take the keys. I scratch his back.
"I'll be back soon, puppy."
I close the door with a click that sounds definitive.
At the hospital, I head straight to the sixth floor. The administration hallway smells of new varnish and white flowers too perfect to be real. The secretary looks up from behind her screen.
"Do you have an appointment, Doctor?"
"No," I reply, holding her gaze. "I'll wait as long as necessary."
She raises an eyebrow, enters my name in a digital planner, and points me to an upholstered armchair in front of the honor roll of former directors. I sit down. The ticking of the wall clock blends with the dripping of the single-serve coffee maker. Fifteen minutes. Twenty-seven. Forty-two. Every second carves the word obstinacy into my bones.
My bladder protests. I ask permission to use the adjoining bathroom. The secretary nods half-heartedly. The toilet is a spotless cubicle of white ceramic. As I wash my hands, I discover an unusual detail: the door through which I entered is on the wall facing the hallway of the anteroom; on the adjacent wall, almost hidden behind the electric dryer, there is another identical door, with no sign, just a chrome handle. From its position, I am almost certain that it leads directly into the director's office; it is a straight line behind the adjacent wall. The room materializes in my mind: a spacious office worthy of a senior executive—dark wood floors, an imposing walnut desk, worn leather armchairs, and wall-to-wall bookcases crammed with medical treatises and framed diplomas. I can almost smell the mixture of old varnish and freshly ground Colombian coffee that always floats in the offices of medical directors. But then an internal alarm goes off: What is the director's office doing connected to the bathroom we all share? He should have a private bathroom, shielded by hierarchy. Something here doesn't fit; the architecture is lying.
A rush of adrenaline hits my stomach. I press my ear against the door: silence.
With extreme care, I try to turn the handle, but it barely moves a couple of millimeters; the lock is jammed. The door remains immovable. If I could find the key... I could cross those three meters and leave more questions than he expects in his inbox, or search the computer for the logs they denied me. My pulse races.
The hospital has two types of people, I remember. Those who watch... and those who do something.
The buzz of an elevator stopping in the hallway brings me back to the present. I let go of the doorknob and take a step back, my heart still pounding. stopping in the hallway brings me back to the present. I look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror: control is a mask that is cracking.
I take a breath, dry my hands, and decide what kind of person I'm going to be when I turn that doorknob again.
Back in the waiting room, barely ten minutes pass before the secretary receives an internal call. She gestures to me:
"Dr. Balmaceda, the director can see you now."
I go in. The office strikes me as immediately strange: it's smaller than I remember from previous meetings. The window is still there, as is the brown leather couch, but the perspective has shrunk as if someone had stolen a couple of feet of depth.
On the right, I see a door marked "Private Bathroom." It wasn't in that location in my memory: before, the bathroom was behind the desk, not to the side.
And on the wall that should be adjacent to the public bathroom where I just was, a neat row of bookshelves filled with clinical volumes and academic trophies covers every inch from floor to ceiling. There is no sign of any door. And a thought occurs to me: the door I saw in the bathroom does not lead directly here; there must be a hidden section, an intermediate room that swallows up those missing meters.
The director is already at his desk, leafing through a burgundy folder. When he sees me cross the threshold, he looks up and gives a formal smile.
"Dr. Balmaceda," he greets me, pointing to the chair in front of his desk. "Come in, have a seat."
While the director reviews a sticky note, I scan the impeccable spines. A couple of shelves show slight irregular wear, as if they had been installed more recently than the rest. Even from three meters away, I can smell the faint scent of pressed wood that betrays a new panel. My heart beats faster—that wall is hiding something.
"How can I help you?" asks the director, closing the folder.
"I'm here to understand why the investigation into patient 419 was closed," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I requested the print logs, and suddenly the case was archived."
The director frowns slightly and tilts his head.
"To be honest, Doctor, I have no idea what case you're talking about," he says, clasping his hands on the desk. "I haven't been involved in clinical matters for years; my role is strategic. Patient files are managed in another area."
He gestures toward a tray of correspondence.
"Everything related to audits or investigation closures is handled by the Processes Department and, ultimately, Clinical Audit. I only receive overall reports, never individual cases."
He opens a side folder, takes out a business card, and writes down a couple of names on the back.
"Dr. Celeste Navarrete, head of Clinical Auditing, and Dr. Germán Parra, Deputy Director of Administrative Processes," he lists as he writes. "They are the ones who validate or file records like yours."
He hands me the card, but I don't take it right away.
"You understand that I need answers," I insist.
"You have every right, but remember that there is a protocol," he replies, resting his elbows on the desk. "You must submit a formal request through the reception desk, attach your arguments, and wait for a referral. Contacting them directly is not possible; the system blocks any access that has not gone through the reception desk, and frankly, trying to bypass the process would only delay it."
The card remains between us like a conditional passport. I finally take it; the cardboard seems heavier than it should be. The director then looks at me with a serene expression, his eyes soft but filled with genuine concern, as if he senses the turmoil inside me... as if, somehow, he already knows me.
"Would you like some coffee?" he suddenly offers, pressing the bell that connects to the secretary. "Take a minute while it's coming."
I accept with a nod. He leans back slightly, interlaces his fingers, and adopts an almost confessional tone.
"It's been a tough time for everyone," he says. "How are you coping day to day? I mean your routine here, and also outside the hospital. Sometimes we neglect our personal lives when work gets busy."
The question catches me off guard: intimate without being invasive, a courtesy I didn't expect in the midst of this bureaucratic standoff.
"My routine is pretty standard, Director," I reply, measuring each word. "Reviewing quality indicators in the morning, analyzing incidents and reports in the afternoon. Outside the hospital, I try to read and spend time with my dog. Nothing too extraordinary."
I leave the sentence hanging like a terse report; enough information to be polite, but without any cracks through which anything more personal might slip.
I clear my throat.
"If there's nothing else, may I leave?" I ask, already standing.
The director nods with a conciliatory gesture.
I pick up my bag and, before heading for the front door, I take one last look at the wall lined with bookshelves. All I see are shelves covered with dust and books. Could it be that the only access is through the bathroom outside? That doesn't make sense, but then again, not much has made sense since I started working on this case...
"Thank you for your time, director," I say, keeping my tone neutral.
I walk a few steps down the corridor and stop. The card vibrates against my palm, a reminder of the official line I'm supposed to follow. Will I register it at the reception desk? Of course I will—I force myself to answer—because skipping the proper channels would only put me on the same blacklist that buried the case.
Even so, another idea slithers in: request a meeting with Tomás. He knew firsthand the printing procedures that night; perhaps he can shed light on angles that escape me. But the mere prospect of having him in front of me, without the armor of a formal work pretext, makes my stomach churn. If I invite him to talk, will I be able to maintain control? I don't understand why I trust him—or whether that trust is intuition or mere necessity.
I clutch the card, slip it into the inside pocket of my blazer, and resume walking: protocol first, then... we'll see.