And it’s like you can feel the fight happening in her brain—inside her heart.

Dr. Iverson shakes her head. “No, what?”

The uncertainty gone from Ms. B’s voice. “My answer is no. We’re going to let Quincy pass in peace.”

Dr. Iverson raps her knuckles atop the desk. “Ms. Barrantes, I don’t think you understand what we’re offering you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime . . .” The doctor looks at me for backup.

“Ms. B, are you sure?” I ask.

She nods. “Many moons ago, my first nursing job was on an oncology unit, and I was terrified to make a mistake. What if I hurt someone? I quadruple-checked everything. Even their lunch orders. But then, a few weeks into the job, I watched a patient who’d been in my care die. There were other options the patient could’ve tried. Another surgery. More chemo. But she declined. And her family was so sad and angry. They took it personally. Why didn’t she want to keep trying? Keep fighting? And I’ll never forget what another nurse told them. ‘Sometimes it’s not can we, but should we?’” Ms. B shakes her head. “No one wants my son back more than me. But this. This feels selfish, bringing him back just so I get to say goodbye. Waking him up just so he can die again.”

But Dr. Iverson isn’t giving up. “It’s like we dropped a dinosaur into your lap, Ms. Barrantes. I get it. It’s a lot. But time is of the essence here. The reanimation window is incredibly narrow, and . . .”

Ms. B interrupts. “You know, this entire time, all I thought about was what I wanted. But who’s asking what Quincy would want?”

And who could argue with that?

“I’m sorry, Ms. Barrantes,” Dr. Iverson says. “But I think you’re making a mistake you’ll lament for the rest of your life.”

But Ms. B’s standing now. “Maybe,” she concedes, already opening the door. “But if there’s anything I was reminded of today, it’s how brief the rest of our lives can be.”

82

Ms. B hustles back down the hall, and once again I double my efforts to keep up.

But then the office door flies open. Dr. Iverson rushing after us, her eyes wild.

“Ms. Barrantes, the difference in your story is,” Dr. Iverson shouts down the hall. “That person got to decide.”

I look at Ms. B. She presses the elevator button.

Dr. Iverson’s voice still booming. “She had time to come to terms. To say her last words.”

The elevator chimes, the door opens. Ms. B steps inside and I follow, Dr. Iverson right behind us now.

“Quincy didn’t get that tonight. But doesn’t he deserve it?”

I tilt my head to catch Ms. B’s eyes. “Are you sure?” I ask softly, so only she can hear.

The door now sliding.

“Ms. B,” I say quietly.