I was pulling on my cardigan when the young nurse, Jessica, had bustled in. She was new, nervous, and dangerous.

“Nurse,” I had said, my voice cutting through the quiet room.

She jumped, nearly dropping a vial.

“That is Metformin,” I pointed out, nodding at her tray. “Mr. Henderson in 4B is hypoglycemic. If you give him that, you will put him in a coma. Check your chart.”

Jessica’s face went pale. She looked down, recalculated, and her hands began to shake. “Oh my god. You’re right. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Harris. I…”

“It’s Major Harris,” I corrected, not unkindly. “And you’re welcome. Now go fix it before someone dies.”

She fled. I watched her go, feeling the familiar itch of uselessness. I was a lioness trapped in a petting zoo.

Then came the call.