Patient: Lewis Monroe, 64. ALS. Respiratory decline. Terminal.
He could no longer speak—only blink. One for "yes," two for "no." His body had betrayed him piece by piece over the past year. Now all he had left was a morphine drip, a hospital bed, and a ceiling he couldn't look away from.
Eliot sat beside him that night, fingers steepled.
"I can't ask you," Eliot whispered. "But I need to know if you're ready."
A pause. Then one blink.
Eliot closed his eyes.
He had already switched the IV. Potassium chloride was ready. Quick. Painless. Quiet. And no more long nights with useless machines or a body he couldn't control.
"I'm not doing this out of pity," Eliot said. "I'm doing this because you deserve dignity."
He pulled the curtain. The monitors beeped softly behind him.
Then—
"Dr. Wren?"
He froze.
Cara.
She was standing in the doorway, eyes flicking between Eliot and the IV in his hand.
"I need you for a consult," she said. Her voice was calm—too calm.
Eliot didn't turn around.
"He's ready," Eliot said. "You know he is."
"I don't care," she said quietly. "You're not doing this. Not like this."
Behind them, the patient blinked once. Then once again.
Yes. Yes.
"Cara," Eliot said, turning to her now, "you saw it. The charts. The pain. There's nothing left but waiting for his lungs to stop. Why is that more humane than this?"
"Because it's not your decision!" she snapped. "We don't get to choose who lives or dies because we think we're being kind."
Eliot stared at her. Something hollow in his expression.
"Then whose decision is it?" he asked.
And she had no answer.
They stood in that silence for what felt like hours. Finally, Eliot stepped back from the IV, his hands trembling for the first time.
"I don't want to be a killer," he whispered.
"But you are," she said, not cruelly—but with something like grief.
He left the room without another word.
Cara stood beside Mr. Monroe, gently adjusting the oxygen line.
She didn't know if she had saved him… or just extended the wait.
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End of Chapter 8.
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