I PRACTICALLY RUN BACK to my office. Not in anger. Not in frustration. Not for any reason but that I’m tired, and Blumenthal might be right. And—oh, hell—I don’t know what I’m even doing.

Up those same damned back stairs. I’m breathing heavily, and my heart is pounding. I’ve gone full speed.

It’s about midnight, but of course GUH, under siege and security, is as hectic as if it were noon. I fade into the hospital crowd. Guards and NYPD officers patrol the halls. Patients buzz their buzzers. The air is pierced by the cries of “Nurse. Nurse. Please, Nurse.” The PA system regularly blasts announcements like “Dr. Somebody, please report to Room Someplace immediately.” Orderlies joke with nurses. Babies wail.

I pass through the dark and empty waiting room of the Midwifery offices. I notice the lights are on in Tracy Anne’s cubicle. I step inside.

“What’s keeping you here?” I say.

“Gina Esposito’s husband is driving in from Brooklyn. Gina’s having contractions. In fact, I should get over to the birthing room now,” Tracy Anne says.

“You want me to hang out? I can help,” I say.

“No. Don’t you dare try to help. Get home, and get some sleep. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but Troy and I are both worried about you,” she says.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I answer, not really believing what I’m saying.

“Well, all I can suggest is this: if you’ve got a mirror handy, take a good look in it. You look deader than a corpse.”

“There is nothing ‘deader than a corpse,’” I say.

“Yeah? Well, just look in a mirror.”

I chuckle, but I don’t need Tracy Anne or a mirror to tell me that I’m exhausted. Pissed off and exhausted. Frustrated and exhausted. Sad and exhausted. But in any case, exhausted.

With a note of eagerness, Tracy Anne says, “When you get a chance, maybe you can fill me in on what’s going on. Troy won’t let on. He says that it’s for you to let me know.”

“Honestly, Troy doesn’t know the half of it. I’ll let you both know real soon. I’d tell you now, but I just don’t have the energy,” I say.

“It’s okay. I’ve gotta get over to Gina and her baby,” Tracy Anne says. She stands and touches my shoulder as she walks past me. “Go home and relax, Lucy. Just a little. Okay?”

I’m standing at the entrance to Tracy Anne’s cubicle. Her tiny space is a landslide of papers and medical books, a poster of Beyoncé, a plastic skeleton of the pelvic area, a bad reproduction of an Andy Warhol Marilyn Monroe print.

I reach for my cell phone. A spontaneous gesture, I guess.