He cleared his throat twice before turning his head toward me.

“Nora,” he said, his phrasing calm and clinical.

“Why was Mr.

Winslow’s morning liquid feeding changed on the floor chart?”

I squeezed my left wrist hard behind my white apron.

“He spit up his warm broth at nine,” I said.

“I didn’t want him coughing while he was lying flat.”

Dr.