I reread the message pinned at the top of the chat as if it were a charm against anxiety: "There could be something else. I'm warning you. Don't go alone." It was from Tomás. In the management system, the request still had the same lukewarm status: under review. A whole week waiting for a single word—reopening—can stretch like chewing gum in the mouth of the hospital.
I opened the encrypted folder. The four photos were still where I left them, still, but with that glow of things that, if you look at them long enough, start to speak. The log of accesses to Arturo's file; the resuscitation record signed by another doctor; the inventory with missing items and adjustments three days later; and that blurry image that read "transfer postponed" for a patient who was not Arturo. They weren't formal evidence; they were substantial suspicions.
I decided that if I was going to open the microSD card, it would be on the old machine, off the network, with a museum keyboard. That afternoon, in my apartment, I locked the door twice and opened it like someone deactivating a hook. There were more photos, two screenshots with time stamps, and an audio file with hallway noise. In the first screenshot, the Roles module showed that the person in charge that night was the one who appears in almost all the documents... except in the CPR report. In the second, an internal email with the subject line "report adjustment" sent three days after the death: "Attached again due to a page number error." Error? Correction? Rewrite? The audio was brief: footsteps, a door, and a male voice saying, "Leave it as we discussed." Without context, useless in a report; useful for my intuition.
The next morning, everything remained the same: under analysis. I functioned on autopilot at the quality meeting, nodding at a presentation on petty cash audits. My mind was elsewhere. I crossed over to Hospitalization C as usual: at the nursing station, Veronica was laughing with two interns; short, breathable laughter. I didn't see Tomás and was grateful for his absence with a relief that surprised me.
Later, another message from him arrived: "Tomorrow, coffee outside. Quiet place. Don't go alone." I replied that I had received it and opened the chat with Claudia: "Can you come with me or be online?" She had class, called my attention at a set time, and ordered me to share my location. I anchored her phrase next to Tomás's message.
The café was on a brick street with climbing plants. Warm light, three tables. I arrived early and sat with my back to the street, my cell phone location active. Tomás arrived on time: street clothes, dark jacket, backpack at his feet. No hugs. He sat down carefully so as not to invade my space.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
"Thanks for meeting me outside."
He ordered an Americano; I ordered tea. Moving the cups seemed like a ritual.
"About the terrace... you shouldn't have gone alone," he repeated.
"I know. Today someone knows where I am."
He nodded. He slid his backpack aside, took out a black notebook, and opened it in the middle.
"I didn't bring anything that would compromise you if you get stopped. These are my notes: so you understand what you saw and where to look when it's official."
I read what he had written by hand: "P3 — inventory adjustment: 3 fentanyl / 2 midazolam (post 72 h)"; "Roles: shift change 12:40 a.m.–2:10 a.m. — minutes not uploaded"; "CPR report signed by Dr. Molina (not on duty that night)."
"Shift change?" I asked.
"It happens," he admitted, "but it leaves a trace in the minutes. It's not here."
"What about the report signed by the other doctor?"
"Even stranger," he said. "If the chief leaves for something serious, someone else can sign, but the reason is recorded. There's no associated note here."
We looked at each other in silence. The coffee smelled like coffee and that other thing I don't want to name because then it sticks.
"I'm going to insist with Processes," I announced. "If they reopen, I'll ask for logs and minutes."
"Do it," he said. "And don't say you talked to me."
"I don't plan to."
"And don't ask me how I got what you saw."
"I won't."
"It's for me," he added. "And for you."
I swallowed the urge to tell him not to worry about me at all. He was just trying to limit the damage, nothing more.
"There's something else: Veronica," he blurted out.
He poked me in the ribs, or maybe my pride.
"What about her?"
"She saw you that day. She senses you're up to something." She's not your enemy. She just doesn't want to lose her apartment.
"Neither do I."
He held my gaze a second too long. That spark.
"I don't know if I'm going to take the next step," he lowered his voice.
"I'm not asking you to," I lied.
"Yes, you are," he replied, with an honesty that is not always forgiving. "Maybe a little more."
"I'm asking you for truth," I corrected. "And not to use me."
"I wouldn't use you," she said too quickly. "And you... don't ask me to be someone I can't be."
My phone vibrated: Claudia.
"Everything okay?" No greeting.
"Yes. At the café."
"Remember the usual: clear boundaries, and don't carry anyone's secrets."
"Got it."
Tomás turned the cup between his fingers.
"Your friend is right."
"She usually is."
"Then listen to me about one thing: if I text you, don't go alone."
He paid. I accepted the gesture. Sometimes accepting is also a boundary. We left together and, under the streetlight, the world shrank. He gave me back the notebook.
"Keep it," he said. "It doesn't have my name on it."
"That doesn't mean it's not yours."
"Do what you think is necessary."
There was a moment when I could have touched his arm. I didn't. There was another when he could have come closer. He didn't either. It was fine.
Back at the hospital, the system changed the label: referred for technical evaluation. I wrote a surgical report: consistency between resuscitation records and chronology of accesses. Aseptic, without drama. Later, Veronica peeked through my door and closed it behind her with a single word:
"Take care."
"For any particular reason?"
"Because everyone thinks they know more than they do. And because when you pull a thread, sometimes the sweater is yours."
"Thanks for the textile metaphor."
"Don't trust anyone, for better or for worse. Not me, not Tomás, not even yourself when you think you're invincible."
"I don't feel invincible."
"Good. That keeps you alive."
That night I transferred Tomás's notebook to a clean file: just facts and places. I drew a timeline: Arturo's admission (SAMU, delirium) → stabilization → cardiac arrest → CPR → report signed by someone else → inventory with missing items at 72 hours → email about "adjusting the report." I saved it twice: encrypted and on a USB drive with tape. I had to be careful.
The impulse returned, unmasked. Tomás on the terrace, Tomás in the café, the "don't ask me to be who I can't be." And who can I be? I made a list without poetry, just conditions so I wouldn't lose myself if I ever decided to move forward:
If there is intimacy, let it be with explicit consent and sobriety.
Don't mix business with pleasure when we see each other personally.
Advance notice to Claudia and shared location.
Always protection; if there isn't any, there isn't any.
Cut-off signal ("stop") if something upsets me, no explanations in the heat of the moment.
No promises about the future; honesty in the present.
If I feel like I'm giving in against my will, I'll leave.
I read it aloud. It didn't sound romantic. It sounded like self-care. I copied it onto paper and kept it in my purse, in case the future tried to forget me.
The next day, the Deputy Director of Processes called to set another deadline: my supplementary application had been received, and they estimated five business days. It was a polite way of saying "wait."
In the afternoon, I was tempted to write to Tomás. I deleted two attempts and sent only this: "Thanks for the notebook. If there's any news, I'll let you know. Take care." He replied: "Useful for me too. If I write to you, don't go alone." The phrase had already become a refrain.
Over the weekend, Claudia dragged me out for a walk and then to a neighborhood bar to unwind. I let her lead us.
"First, the technical stuff," she said. "Any news?"
I told her just enough: technical evaluation in progress, letter about logs, email about "adjusting the record," signature that doesn't match. She nodded without solemnity.
"Now the other thing: Tomás."
"He gave me a notebook with clues. He says he doesn't know if he'll cross the line. I don't know if I want him to cross it."
"But you want to," she said.
"Yes."
"Naming it is healthy. The key is how you decide whatever you decide, to have clarity."
We drank in silence for a while.
"I still don't trust him," I admitted. "And at the same time, I want to. After coffee, I thought clearly: if I fall, let it be for me.
"Then define your framework," he said, pointing to my chest. "Not his. What takes care of you? What turns you on without dragging you down? Remember your ex.
The cold wind of the past blew in: that time I confused care with control. Surveillance in the name of love; confidences as weapons; tests of loyalty; me signing recusas to myself.
"That's why you're writing conditions today," she smiled. "Not to tame desire, but to never abandon yourself again. If it deregulates you, stop.
If you need to talk, call me. If it happens, don't keep it a secret: someone is with you from the outside. And if you agree to sex without promises, let it be a mutual agreement, without anesthesia.
We laughed softly.
"What if he just stares and doesn't cross over?" I asked.
"That's also an answer. Temptation can be experienced slowly, without setting everything on fire. Sometimes informed desire is worth more than a quick impulse, and certainty is worth more than jumping into the pool without a lifeguard.
We hugged on the sidewalk, giving each other that warmth that only sisterhood can provide.
That night, in my kitchen, Claudia sat down to have tea.
"There's one question missing," she said. "Are you confident that Tomás won't use your fragility against you?"
"I don't know yet," I replied. "I can find out slowly, one small step at a time."
"Good. Slowly is the plan, then."
When the week began, I swiped my badge at the gate with the usual automatic gesture. On the screen, the same status: referred for technical evaluation. No one from Processes in my inbox. An institutional greeting, vaccination announcements, the usual. A message from Tomás, on the other hand, was short: "If you see movement in P3, let me know. Don't go alone." I put my phone away. I thought about Arturo, about the document with another signatory, about the after-hours access. I thought about my new rules. If desire and anger are gasoline, I decide the speed at which I want to drive.
I opened a document to record my plan for the eventual reopening. Outside, the hospital breathed like an old animal that doesn't run, but doesn't stop either. Inside, so did I: without heroics, with short steps, my back straight and the certainty that I am not walking alone, even though there is no one by my side that day.
That night, when the apartment was in darkness and the laptop screen was the only stubborn lamp, I wrote a draft that I did not send:
"When the technical evaluation is over, if you agree, we will meet without mixing the case: during the day, in a closed and neutral place that I will reserve. Without expectations that neither of us can sustain. If it doesn't make sense to you, that's fine too. I'll take care of myself; you take care of yourself."
I saved the file and turned off the computer. In my chest there was a new certainty: if I ever decide to let myself fall, it will be with a harness. Not to obstruct the investigation, but so that desire has a channel that doesn't tear me away from myself. I slept better than other nights, because I finally knew how I was going to sustain myself while I waited.