“I’m supposed to staple this into a file and forget it,” she said.

“Nineteen years on this floor.

I don’t forget.”

She slid the paper across the counter and turned it to face me.

Three columns: a user name, a date and time, a reason code.

“Nine thirty-eight this morning,” she said.

“Somebody pulled your wife’s trauma assessment.

Then the imaging report at nine forty-two.