Grant held his hand out for three full seconds before lowering it.

He set the blue plastic clipboard at the foot of my bed, lining its edge up with the metal railing.

“The first round of immunosuppressants has to start today,” Dr.

Grant said.

“The pharmacy needs a signed financial guarantee before they mix the compounds for her drip.”

Richard didn’t move from his spot by the heavy wooden door.

He held the blue financial folder tightly under his left arm.

“We’re not authorizing the protocol,” my father said.