Chapter 7: Morning Rounds
Mount Sinai's pediatric wing was quiet at four in the morning.
The charge nurse at the pulmonology desk looked up as I came through the double doors.
I gave her my name and asked for the attending physician on call for Lily Santos.
"Sir, visiting hours don't begin until—"
"I'm not here to visit.
I need to speak with whoever is managing her treatment plan.
It's urgent."
She studied me for a moment, then picked up the phone.
Dr.
Patricia Osei came out of a side corridor five minutes later — mid-forties, a stethoscope around her neck, the particular alertness of someone accustomed to being woken at difficult hours.
"Mr.
Foster." She looked at me carefully.
"Lily's mother listed you as an emergency contact two hours ago.
She called ahead."
Maya had moved faster than I'd expected.
"Lily's prescription," I said.
"Meridian Pediatric Supply has been withholding the release.
That changes tonight.
I need to know what she needs and I need to know who to call to make sure it's dispensed by morning rounds."
Dr.
Osei's expression shifted — not surprise exactly, but something careful giving way to something more direct.
"The biologic she needs has been on back-order through her current supplier for three weeks," she said.
"We've been managing with reduced-efficacy alternatives.
It's not dangerous in the short term, but it's not adequate."
"Is the medication available through another distributor?"
"Yes.
But the insurance authorization is tied to Meridian."
"Override it.
Bill my office directly for whatever the insurance won't cover.
Tonight."
Dr.
Osei looked at me for a long moment.
"I'll need that in writing."
"Frank." I turned.
Frank already had his phone out, drafting the authorization email to the hospital's billing department.
"Done in two minutes," he said.
Dr.
Osei nodded slowly.
"I'll contact our pharmacy.
If the authorization clears, we can have the medication ready before six."
"Thank you."
She started to turn back toward the corridor, then stopped.
"Mr.
Foster.
Lily's been asking for her mother.
Maya's been here every night this week after her shift ends." She paused.
"She's in the family room at the end of the hall.
She doesn't know you're here."
I walked down the corridor.
The family room was small — two couches, a low table, a window that looked out over the dark city.
Maya was asleep sitting upright, her coat still on, her head tilted against the wall.
I sat down in the chair across from her and waited.
At four forty-seven, she woke up.
She looked at me without speaking for a moment, the way people do when they're not sure if they're still dreaming.
"Mr.
Foster."
"The medication will be ready before morning rounds," I said.
"Dr.
Osei is handling it now."
Maya stared at me.
"The supply problem has been resolved," I said.
"Lily won't miss another dose."
Her face didn't change for a long moment.
Then something in it broke open — not dramatically, just quietly, the way a window fogs when the temperature outside finally drops.
She pressed both hands over her mouth.
I looked at the window.
"The note," she said after a moment.
"The one slipped under the door.
It mentioned Lily."
"I know."
"Was she in danger?"
I thought about how to answer that honestly.
"Someone tried to use her as leverage against me," I said.
"They won't be in a position to do that again."
Maya lowered her hands.
Her eyes were wet but her voice was steady.
"Why are you doing this?"
It was a fair question.
I'd been asking it myself since eleven o'clock.
"I heard you through a bathroom door," I said.
"Asking your mother for $2,800." I looked at her.
"I approved a forty-million-dollar deal that week without reading the full brief.
I didn't know what that meant until I heard you."
Maya was quiet.
"You said, 'Baby, I have milk for you.'" I paused.
"I saw the bottle.
I didn't understand it at first.
Lily is six.
Then I looked at her file again."
Maya's hands folded together in her lap.
"She stopped being able to keep food down six months ago," she said quietly.
"The condition affects her digestion as well as her lungs.
The bottle is easier for her." A pause.
"She doesn't mind.
She thinks it's funny.
She calls it her special cup."
The city outside was beginning to lighten, barely — the first gray suggestion of morning at the edges of the buildings.
"Maya.
Your salary." I kept my voice even.
"I looked at your records.
The deductions, the loan repayments.
It shouldn't have reached the point where $2,800 was impossible."
She looked at the floor.
"I didn't want to ask."
"I know." I leaned forward.
"I'm going to fix the salary structure.
Retroactively.
And the medical costs — whatever insurance hasn't covered for Lily's treatment — I want the full accounting.
My office will handle it."
Maya looked up sharply.
"Mr.
Foster, I can't—"
"You can." I met her eyes.
"You're not asking.
I'm telling you."
She held my gaze for a moment.
Then she nodded, once, and looked back at the window.
Down the hall, a door opened.
Dr.
Osei's voice, low and professional, speaking to a nurse.
Maya stood up.
"I should go check on her," she said.
"Go."
She took two steps toward the door, then turned back.
"Thank you," she said.
It came out simply, without performance.
"Go see your daughter," I said.
She went.
I sat in the family room alone for a few minutes.
The city outside was fully gray now, the dark giving way to the particular flat light of early morning.
My phone buzzed.
A text from my attorney.
*U.S.
Attorney's office has the materials.
Formal inquiry opening today.
Miller's counsel has been notified.*
I put the phone in my pocket.
Then I thought about something Ryan had said in the warehouse, crouched beside those pallets with his phone in his hand.
*I was trying to protect you.*
Nine years.
He'd genuinely believed that, at least at the start.
I didn't know if that made it better or worse.
I suspected it made it both.
The inquiry would sort out what he'd known and when.
That wasn't my decision anymore.
I stood up, buttoned my jacket, and walked back down the corridor toward the elevator.
As I passed room seven, the door was open a few inches.
I heard Maya's voice, soft and close.
"I'm here, baby.
Mama's right here."
And then, quieter, a small voice I hadn't heard before.
"Did you bring my special cup?"
A pause.
Then Maya laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of her.
"I forgot it.
I'm sorry, baby."
"That's okay." A pause.
May you like
"You're here."
I kept walking.
