By morning, the quiet dread turned into anger. When a nurse entered with a clipboard, Tula’s voice cracked like glass. “I want to see my chart. Now.” The nurse blinked. “Ma’am—” “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Tell me what’s wrong with me!” Her voice shook the walls. Ashley tried to calm her, failed.
The head nurse stepped in and murmured that a senior doctor had reviewed her scans and wanted to run a full genetic panel. “Just to be thorough,” she said, avoiding eye contact. Tula didn’t argue anymore. Let them poke and prod. At least it kept them from retreating behind their clipboards.