Her Fatal Cup Of Milk Chapter 2

Once the shift handover concluded, the final preoperative verification began.

Because Walter Geoffrey was the opening case of the surgical schedule, every box had to be checked beforehand. I verified his vitals, charting each entry into the electronic system.

Lauren, the nurse manager, responded in the department group:

"Bed Eight's preoperative fasting must strictly follow hospital protocol. No unprescribed food or drink may enter the room."

Dr. Nicholas Ross from Anesthesiology chimed in right after:

"Milk is a heavy emulsion. Any preoperative intake mandates an immediate cancellation of the case and a reassessment of pulmonary aspiration risk."

Wanda lingered by the doorway of the breakroom, her tears still half-wet on her cheeks.

A passing orderly asked her what was wrong.

She offered a brave, pitiful smile. "Nothing. I'm just clumsy. I hated seeing the old gentleman starve for so long, and I almost caused trouble for Morgan."

She always knew how to choose her words.

In my past life, she had wept the exact same way during the morbidity and mortality review: "I only asked if he could drink something, and Morgan told me she would handle it."

And just like that, every action I took—wrestling the cup away, pouring the milk down the drain, arguing with her—became proof that I had "assumed responsibility."

This time, I wouldn't leave her a single inch of room to twist the narrative.

I handed the printed acknowledgment to David. "Read every line before you sign. This isn't bureaucratic red tape; it is confirmation that you understand the lethal risks."

David gripped the pen, his jaw tight. "Nurse, my dad keeps complaining about his mouth feeling like sandpaper. There has to be something we can do."

"We can moisten his lips with a swab. No swallowing."

I tore open a sterile sponge stick, dipped it in a tiny amount of warm water, and gently dabbed the old man's lips.

Walter let out a dry, rattling sigh. "Sweetheart, I'm just hungry. It makes my chest feel hollow."

"Mr. Geoffrey, you just need to hang on a little longer. Safety comes first. If you swallow anything now, the surgery will be canceled, and delaying your tumor resection puts you in far greater danger."

The old man nodded slowly.

Wanda stepped into the room again, her voice like spun silk. "Mr. Geoffrey, don't be scared. Morgan says no, so we won't drink anything. My heart breaks for you, but I don't dare say another word, or Morgan will get angry with me again."

David’s pen paused mid-stroke.

I cut my eyes toward her.

Wanda shrank back, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. "Did I... say something wrong again?"

I pulled out my phone and tapped the audio memo recorder. "Wanda, what you just said is going directly into the clinical communication log."

"Morgan! You're recording me over this?"

"Of course." I locked eyes with her. "You are actively implying to the patient that standard safety protocol is a personal grudge of mine. You are undermining clinical compliance."

The color drained from Wanda's face.

Edric walked back in just in time to catch the tail end of the sentence. His brow furrowed instantly. "Morgan, can you stop going after Wanda for five minutes?"

"You think what she said was appropriate?"

Edric paused, shifting his weight. "Her phrasing was just... unprofessional."

I opened the incident memo on my screen and typed in real-time, right in front of him:

"Lead Surgeon Edric Peterson acknowledged that Clinical Nutrition Intern Wanda utilized unprofessional communication regarding Bed Eight's NPO protocol."

Edric’s face turned stony. "You're documenting me now?"

"I document anyone who compromises the safety of Bed Eight."

Wanda began to sob softly beside him. "Edric, please, stop. It's fine. Morgan just doesn't like me. Whenever you brought me around the department in the past, she always looked unhappy."

The words were like tiny, poisoned needles, subtly shifting the atmosphere in the room.

David looked at me with renewed suspicion.

This was Wanda’s greatest talent: dragging a hard clinical violation into the muddy waters of romantic jealousy, framing a dangerous breach of protocol as the pettiness of a bitter fiancée.

Edric’s jaw set hard. "Morgan, we are on the clock."

A cold smile touched the corner of my mouth. "Good. Because I'm only talking about work."

I snapped a photo of the newly signed form and uploaded it to the system.

"Bed Eight patient and proxy have completed secondary NPO verification. Education delivered by Primary Nurse Morgan Ernest. Notified attending, anesthesia, and nurse manager."

Wanda stared fixedly at my phone screen, silent.

A few minutes later, I walked back to the nurses' station to print the preoperative transfer sheet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wanda standing beside the medical label printer.

Her fingers lingered for a very long time over the backup label tray.