Just then, the phone on the bedside table began to ring, its red light flashing in the dim room.

The phone rang a second time.

It was a sharp, high-pitched beep that cut through the steady hum of my heart monitor.

Ethan reached over and grabbed the receiver.

“This is Dr. Harrison,” he said.

His voice was flat and cold.

He listened for a few seconds, his jaw tightening until a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“No,” Ethan said. “You will not sign those papers.”

He slammed the receiver back onto the plastic cradle.

“That was the administrative supervisor,” Ethan said, looking at Vance. “My mother is already on the pediatric floor.”

My chest tightened, and a familiar, cold panic rose in my throat.

“She can’t take them, Ethan,” I said, my voice cracking. “She’ll hide them from me.”

“She won’t touch them,” Ethan said.

He turned back to Vance.

“Lock down the pediatric ICU,” Ethan said. “Nobody goes in or out without my personal authorization.”

“Ethan, she is the primary donor for our new wing,” Vance said, his voice quiet. “The board is already complying with her requests.”