Sharon did not sleep.
She sat in the chair outside Room Four long after Evan's body went still, hands folded in her lap as if letting them move might cause everything she'd been holding back to finally tear loose. The restraints were still in place. No one had suggested removing them. No one wanted to be the one to touch him again.
The hallway smelled wrong now.
Not just antiseptic and sweat and fear—but something faintly metallic beneath it. Coppery. The smell of blood that had soaked into places it didn't belong. Sharon had known that smell her entire career. Mass casualty events. Burn units. The aftermath of things that never made the news because the details were too much for anyone outside the walls.
She had never smelled it on her own floor.
Behind her, someone coughed. Someone whispered a prayer. Somewhere down the hall, a newborn fussed and was soothed back into quiet. Life clung on in small, stubborn ways.
Evan lay motionless in the bed.
Sedated. Alive. Not gone.
But no longer Evan.
Sharon closed her eyes, breathed through the ache in her chest, then stood.
She didn't reach for the phone.
She walked.
Down the dim corridor of Women's Services, past sealed rooms and nurses moving like ghosts, past doctors who had been rerouted by collapsed stairwells and dead elevators and had never made it back to their own wings. They all worked this floor—but tonight, this was the only place left to stand.
She stopped first at Dr. Patel, infectious disease, leaning against the counter near Postpartum, sleeves rolled, eyes bloodshot.
"I need you," Sharon said quietly. "Conference room. Now."
He nodded without questions.
Dr. Nguyen followed—maternal-fetal medicine, clutching a notebook like muscle memory hadn't caught up with reality yet.
And Dr. McAllister—neurology—who should have been three floors away but had taken a wrong corridor when the generators flickered and never made it back.
The last to join them was Dr. Reyes.
Neonatology.
A baby doctor.
She looked pale, shaken. "Sharon… I'm not—"
"I know," Sharon said gently. "Just come."
They gathered in the small conference room at the end of the wing. The door closed softly—not locked, but heavy enough to muffle sound.
Outside, Troy Barlow lay on a gurney in the hallway.
Sedation still fogged his system, but it hadn't taken him under. His head was turned slightly toward the door. His eyes were open. Listening.
Inside, Sharon stood at the head of the table.
No white coat. No clipboard.
Just a woman who had crossed something she could never uncross.
"You all saw what happened," she began. "You saw the fever spike. The neurological decline. The aggression."
Patel nodded slowly. "It's not bacterial."
"I know."
"And it doesn't behave like any viral hemorrhagic fever," Nguyen added. "The incubation is too fast."
McAllister spoke quietly. "That wasn't psychosis. That was loss of executive function."
The room went still.
Outside, Troy's fingers curled against the thin mattress.
Sharon let the silence sit.
"Evan was bitten," she said. "The wound itself was minor. But within hours, his nervous system began to fail."
Patel frowned. "So the pathogen targets the brain first."
"Yes."
"Crossing the blood-brain barrier that quickly…" McAllister murmured. "That's—"
"—neurovirological," Sharon finished.
Reyes swallowed. "He's still alive."
"Yes."
"And he's a minor," Nguyen said sharply. "That matters."
Outside the door, Troy's breathing hitched.
"There's no guardian present," Sharon said. "We asked. No one came forward."
"That doesn't mean consent disappears," Reyes said. "We're baby doctors, Sharon. We deliver life—we don't—"
"—cut into it," Nguyen finished.
Sharon nodded once. "I know exactly what I'm asking."
Troy shifted, pain flaring behind his eyes.
They're talking about cutting him open.
"I want to perform a limited exploratory dissection," Sharon said. "Focused. Controlled."
"No," Nguyen said immediately.
"That's unethical," Reyes whispered.
"You're talking about a living child," Patel added.
Sharon didn't raise her voice. "I'm talking about understanding how to stop this."
"There's no protocol for this," Nguyen said.
"There's no protocol for what's happening," Sharon replied. "But it is happening."
Outside, Troy squeezed his eyes shut.
"My husband is a neuroscientist," Sharon said quietly. "He specializes in neurovirology—how pathogens hijack neural pathways, override impulse control, erase pain response."
McAllister's eyes sharpened. "Synaptic override."
"Yes."
Patel frowned. "You should've said that earlier."
"It doesn't change what I am," Sharon said. "I'm an OB. I protect life."
She gestured toward the hall. "But right now, life is bleeding out faster than we can stop it."
Reyes shook her head, tears pooling. "This is crossing a line."
"Yes," Sharon said. "It is."
Outside the door, Troy's chest burned.
They're killing him.
"You all heard him scream," Sharon continued. "You saw how quickly it escalated. If we don't understand this—even a little—then every person on this floor is waiting their turn."
Silence.
Then, quietly, Patel spoke. "If we do this… it must be minimal."
Nguyen nodded reluctantly. "Neural tissue. Spinal fluid."
McAllister exhaled. "I'll assist."
Reyes whispered, "God forgive us."
Sharon closed her eyes for a brief second.
"Thank you."
Outside, Troy let out a broken sound—half breath, half sob.
A nurse rushed over. "Easy. You're safe."
Safe.
Troy stared at the ceiling, tears sliding into his hair.
They weren't saving Evan.
They were choosing everyone else.
Inside the room, the decision settled heavy and final.
The line had been crossed.
And no one—least of all Sharon—would ever step back over it.