Marva was still alive. That was one bit of good news, at least. She hadn’t died from some mistake of Fiona’s, some screwup like overdosing her insulin and putting the nice old lady into diabetic shock. She hadn’t screwed up the medication dosage last night. And this morning—thank God—while helping Marva into a more comfortable position, she somehow hadn’t held a pillow over her face until the struggle ended.

So it had been a pretty good day so far. No deaths. No blood splatter—from a blood bag or otherwise. There were no morning discoveries of forgotten catheter clamps. She should be well on her way to a commendation, perhaps even a raise. Or at least no more drug tests. She’d be happy with that.

“How was your sleep, Marva?”

The elderly woman smiled groggily, stretching her arms under the sheets. “Just as long as I wake up, it was a good one.”

Fiona smiled with her, envying the woman’s simple, geriatric contentment.

“And how was yours?” Marva asked. It was a question Fiona rarely heard.

“Oh, fine,” she lied.

“That’s good, Dear. You deserve it. You work so hard here every day.”

Fiona looked around at a few new additions to the décor. Mainly, several bouquets of standard hospital-lobby flowers. A gold frame around an old black-and-white family photograph. Newer photos without frames, but leaning up here and there, wherever they could.

“I see you’ve had some visitors,” said Fiona as she prepared the glucose monitor. It would be the Marva’s first stab of the day.

“Oh, yes, thank Jesus. They finally came for little old me.”

“Your flowers smell wonderful, Marva.”

“Oh, yes. They were so sweet, coming to see me, and bringing gifts and such.”

Fiona checked her patient ID number off the chart, and then checked her ID bracelet. Everything by the book. “You’ll have to thank them for me,” Fiona said, carefully reading her bracelet.

“I already have, profusely.”

“I mean, thank them for my gift.”

“Oh?” Marva looked as confused as ever. “I’m sorry? What was your gift, Dear?”

“I had a nice little chat with your family yesterday.”

Marva’s eyes widened. “What?”

“They came up to me, to say hi,” said Fiona, putting down the glucose monitor. The pain could wait a minute. “They gave me a little box of chocolates.”

“Oh they did?”

“Yes, they’re very nice.”

“Well, Dear, I told them about you.” Her smile had broadened. And she’d started nodding, almost like she was in a trance. “I told them you’re the one keeping me alive here. And not just that, but sane. You and Jesus.”

Fiona laughed.

“Do they know how valuable you are here?”

She wanted to say yes, but . . .

“No,” she said. “No, they don't.”

Fuck it. They don’t know at all how valuable she was.

“Well, they will know,” said Marva. “I’ll be sure of it. By God I will.”

Fiona laughed again. She picked up the glucose monitor while enjoying the mental image of Marva setting the wrath of God against the unbelievers of Fiona’s competency. “You might not like me after this,” Fiona said, waving the pointy end of the detector.

“Oh, Jesus. That thing again.” She made a face, like a grimace, and then pulled her arm away. “But what about that other thing we talked about? Where I don’t have to get all these needles all the time?”

“Oh, right, the insulin pump.” Fiona had completely forgotten to inquire about it. She was too busy with interrogations and peeing into cups.

“Am I allowed to get one of them things?” asked Marva.

“We’re working on it.”

“Oh, I need it bad.”

“I know, Marva. But I’m afraid this time we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

Marva hesitantly offered her hand.

“I know,” said Fiona, aiming with the device “I’m sorry.” She really was.

“I could sure use that thing.”

“Hold still?”

Marva held still.

“Three . . . Two . . . One . . .”

* * *

Sitting at a table in the break room, Fiona pushed aside the thick hardcover she was attempting to care about. Chick-lit about some soccer mom with an addiction to Ambien. Needing to counteract the sedation, she slid a slice of blueberry pie in front of her. It came in a clear plastic box and the lid opened with a loud snap. She hunched over her drug, her upper, a stale dose of hospital dessert. It was the one indulgence she allowed herself, unless the hospital administrators were screening for sweets as well as the harder stuff. What would they ask for next? A blood sample? They could borrow Marva’s glucose monitor for the deed. Better yet, they could have Marva, herself, extract the sample from Fiona. Get some revenge against her torturer.

She took a bite, and was finally satisfied with her break. It finally lived up to its promise of a break away from the hell. The shortest, most bittersweet sliver of a break.

“Hey, Fiona,” said Wendy, pulling out a chair and sitting across from her. “How much longer do you have?”

“Umm . . .” Fiona had to wait for her pie hole to be devoid of pie.

In the meantime, Wendy slid the book over to her side, glancing at the front cover with mild amusement. “Oh, that’s so funny,” she said, flipping the book over.

What was so funny about that?

“My book club’s reading this,” she said. “But I’m not.”

It wasn’t that funny.

“I’ve got a few minutes,” said Fiona after swallowing that big bite of pie. “What’s up?”

“The results are back.”

“For 218?”

“No. For you,” said Wendy. “The urine sample.”

The mental image was enough for her to lose her appetite. She pushed aside her slice of pie. “What is it, Wendy? You’ve got that look in your eye.”

She did look worried, like there may have actually been a reason to be upset.

“Well, go ahead,” urged Fiona. “What of it?”

“I don’t how I can properly convey this, Fiona . . . But I really am sorry.”

“For what?”

She started to look more ashamed than worried.

“I’m just sorry that this happened,” said Wendy. “I had no control over it. It was negative, of course.”

“Then why are you sorry?”

“Because, I, you know, I just feel bad . . .”

“That’s different. You don’t have to be sorry just because you feel bad.”

“I tried to talk them out of it. I knew they wouldn’t find anything, and that, it would just, you know . . .”

“That’s good enough. You tried. Don’t be sorry. Don’t say sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s just move on. Right?”

“But they still might want to talk to you.”

She slid her pie over to Wendy. “Want some pie?”

She finally lightened up a little bit. “You’re always pushing sweets on me.”

“What do they want to talk about?” asked Fiona. “Am I really messing up that bad?”

“They seem to think so.”

“Maybe I should talk to the union about it.”

“You should probably just try to clear your head,” said Wendy. “Start getting some good sleep, and just take things slow. Be extra careful for a while.”

“That’s what I’m doing, but it’s making me worse,” said Fiona, looking down to her lap. She was literally wringing her hands. “It’s like the harder you hold on to something, the harder it is to keep it in your hands.”

“I’m not sure if that’s necessarily true,” said Wendy.

Fiona stood and brushed off some crumbs from her lap. “Oh, before I go. What are the chances of getting Mrs. Dawes on that—”

“Who’s Mrs. Dawes?”

“Marva.”

Wendy rose from her seat and followed Fiona to her locker.

“What’s the odds of getting her on that new insulin pump?”

“Maybe we can get her on the trial,” said Wendy, looking away as Fiona opened her locker to return her book and purse. “They’re experimenting with a new product, some new technology. She can get on that for free if she wants. They might even pay her.”

“What are the requirements? She has full-blown Type Two diabetes.”

“That sounds about right for the trial.”

It was odd how Wendy was hanging around like that. Was she spying? Was that the next level of their investigation?

“Well,” said Fiona. “I better get back.”

Wendy laughed. “Can’t I walk with you?”

They walked to the elevators, a growing awkwardness coming from Wendy. Her behavior. What more did she have to say? More apologies?

“There was one other thing,” Wendy finally said as they stepped into the quiet privacy of the elevator. She said it as if it were a surprise, as if Fiona hadn't already been expecting the worst. “There’s been some rumors. Have you heard them?”

“About me?”

“No,” said Wendy. “Not everything has to do with you.”

“Good. Thank God.”

“Have you heard about this undercover person? I guess they’re sending in some secret shoppers, you know, people posing as patients. They’re trying to evaluate us in secret. The union hates it.”

“Well, I hate it, too. It sounds . . . deceitful.”

“There’s been a lot of oversights lately,” said Wendy. “Not just from you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, really. Even the computers are having problems. Anyway, it’s just another reason why you should watch what you’re doing.”

Their conversation died down as the elevator stopped, dinged, and then slid open its metal doors. Fiona stepped aside as two other nurses boarded. She spoke more quietly now, saying, “So, when do they expect this to begin?”

“It might already be going on.”

Unlike the drug test, this was something that Fiona had good reason to fear. She thought immediately of all the screwups of her past week, wondering how any of them were being documented by this team of undercover evaluators. And then she thought back to the catheter mistake . . .

No. She was safe there. No undercover agent would go through that kind of pain.

“So just, you know . . .”

“Yeah,” said Fiona. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Exactly,” said Wendy. “Keep your head up.”