I glanced down at the leather messenger bag.

The white printed paper receipt I had glimpsed in the ER waiting room was still tucked inside the front pocket, bearing the bold letterhead of a suburban house cleaning company alongside Sylvia’s dark signature.

The digital clock mounted above the exam room desk read 3:22 AM in bright red numbers.

I turned my head slowly toward Ethan.

He was staring straight down at the gray linoleum floor, his jaw working silently as his shoulders hunched inward.

“Ethan,” I said, keeping my tone as flat and measured as a patient chart.