Chapter 8: Thursday
The call was scheduled for ten in the morning.
We sat at the kitchen table — my husband on one side, me on the other, laptop open between us.
Dr.
Anand had joined a separate audio line that she could listen on without being visible to the hospital team.
She had sent us a short list of questions the night before.
Specific.
Technical.
Worded in a way that made it clear she knew exactly what she was looking for.
The hospital coordinator appeared on screen first.
Then the lead physician, Dr.
Marcus Webb.
He was in his sixties, calm-faced, with reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.
"We're so glad to have Ethan's case with us," he said.
"I've reviewed his file thoroughly.
He's a strong candidate."
"Thank you," I said.
"We have some questions before we sign anything."
"Of course," he said.
"That's exactly what this call is for."
I looked down at the list.
"Which arm of the trial has Ethan been approved for?" I said.
A small pause.
Not long.
But there.
"He's approved for the primary intervention arm," Dr.
Webb said.
"And can that change after intake?" I said.
"After we sign?"
He looked at me more carefully now.
"In rare cases, if a patient's condition changes significantly during the program, the clinical team may reassess—"
"Can it change for administrative reasons?" my husband said.
"Not medical.
Administrative."
Dr.
Webb set down his pen.
"That's a very specific question," he said.
"We'd like a specific answer," I said.
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "There have been cases — in earlier phases of the program — where foundation-sponsored patients were moved to the secondary arm after intake.
It was a resource allocation decision.
It should not have happened without clearer family consent.
It was an administrative failure that we have since corrected."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"We need that in writing," I said.
"That Ethan is approved for the primary arm.
That he cannot be moved without our explicit written consent."
"That is a reasonable request," Dr.
Webb said.
"We'd also like the name of the patient advocate assigned to his case," my husband said.
"Someone outside the clinical team.
Someone whose job is to represent Ethan's interests if there's ever a conflict."
Dr.
Webb nodded slowly.
"We can arrange that."
I heard nothing from Dr.
Anand's line.
But I felt her there.
"One more question," I said.
"The two families whose children were moved to the secondary arm — were they ever told?
Were there consequences for the people who made that decision?"
Dr.
Webb looked at me for a long moment.
"One family was notified after the fact and offered a transfer back to the primary arm.
They accepted.
The other family had withdrawn from the program by the time the review was completed." He paused.
"The administrator responsible for those decisions is no longer with the program."
I looked at my husband.
He gave the smallest nod.
"Then we'd like to proceed," I said.
"With the written confirmation and the patient advocate assigned before we sign."
"You'll have both by end of day," Dr.
Webb said.
The call ended.
I closed the laptop.
My husband leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.
"We almost didn't ask," he said.
"I know."
"If she hadn't messaged us—"
"I know."
I picked up my phone and typed to Dr.
Anand: *We asked.
He answered.
We're getting it in writing.*
Her reply came back quickly.
*Good.
That's all I wanted.
Take care of your boy.*
I set the phone down.
Ethan was upstairs.
I could hear him moving around — the creak of his floor, the sound of his television.
Ordinary sounds.
The sounds of a child in a house on a Thursday morning.
My husband reached across the table and put his hand over mine.
"We're doing this," he said.
"We're doing this," I said.
The written confirmation arrived at 4:47 that afternoon.
May you like
I read every word.
Then I signed.
