“DON’T COME BACK. CHECK THE CAMERA.” (Part 2)
I didn’t want to look… but I couldn’t ignore it.
My heart pounded so hard I felt it in my throat. I stared at the paper against my skin, its edges damp with sweat. For a full minute, I didn’t unfold it. Instead, I listened: the distant squeak of a cart, a brief laugh at the end of the hall, a machine alarm quickly silenced.
Finally, I unfolded the note.
DON’T COME BACK. CHECK THE CAMERA.
That was it. No signature. No explanation.
I looked at Mark. Still asleep. His face slack, unaware. I turned my head toward the ceiling corner, where a small black dome camera sat above the room number sign. It wasn’t blinking. It wasn’t obvious. But it was there.
My first instinct was to crumple the note and pretend it never happened. My second instinct—stronger—was to find out what Dana Whitmore thought I needed to see.
I stood carefully so I wouldn’t wake Mark and stepped into the hallway. At the far end, near the nurses’ station, I saw Dana again. She wasn’t charting. She was watching the hallway monitor.
When she realized I was looking at her, she lifted her chin—just slightly—toward the screens. A warning.
At that moment, one of the screens flickered.
And I saw myself on camera… standing beside Mark’s bed.
But on the screen, there was someone else in the room with us.
My stomach flipped so violently my knees trembled. I stared at the screen like it was a glitch, like the image would correct itself if I blinked hard enough.
The timestamp read 1:47 a.m. — about twenty minutes before Dana had come in.
Behind me, near the cabinet where gloves and extra linens were stored, stood a man half-hidden in shadow.
He wore hospital scrubs and a surgical cap, but something about him was wrong. His posture was too still, too patient—like he wasn’t working. Like he was waiting.
He wasn’t looking at Mark.
He was looking at me.
Dana moved fast, blocking the monitor from others. “You saw him,” she said.
“Who is he?” I whispered.
“It’s not personal,” she said. “Not tonight.”