Chapter 19 - NIGHT SHIFT, TWO PHONES
I was halfway through writing a paper on informed consent when the lights went out in our apartment building. The computer screen vanished, the refrigerator fell silent, and somebody on the floor above us shouted a word my mother would never have approved of when I was young.
Mom was in the kitchen, measuring flour. She paused with a cup in her hand.
“Don't tell me,” she said. “The city has decided we're all sleeping early.”
I found a flashlight, checked that the hallway was clear, and called the building's posted emergency number. The manager confirmed a neighborhood outage and asked everyone to stay off the elevator. We had food, blankets, and a working telephone. There was no reason to panic.
Then my personal phone rang. It was Luca.
“Daniel says someone was photographed outside Sophie's school,” he began.
“Was that person doing anything wrong?”
“We don't know. He doesn't recognize the car.”
“Then please don't decide it's connected to the note yet.”
“I know. I needed you to say it.”
I was silent for a moment. “You can't make me your conscience, Luca.”
He exhaled. “You're right. I should have called Talia or the school's designated safety lead. I'm sorry.”
I loved that he could hear the difference between asking me how I felt and asking me to take responsibility for his decisions. It had taken both of us practice.
After we hung up, a second call came from Celeste on the office line. She needed help documenting a service interruption. The center had received notice that some transport requests could not be viewed through the usual portal. An after-hours response team was already working, but families would need alternate contact numbers. I wasn't handling Northstar cases, so she asked me to prepare plain-language notices for unaffected programs and to make sure translations were available.
I worked by flashlight at the kitchen table. Mom kept bringing tea and telling me to move my shoulders so my old injury wouldn't stiffen. We wrote a short notice explaining what was known, what wasn't, and how to reach a real person. We did not tell families that everything was fine when we couldn't verify it.
The same outage that interrupted our apartment also affected a neighbor on the third floor who depended on a refrigerated medication. He knocked on doors asking whether anyone knew how long the power would be out. I didn't try to give medical advice. I helped him find the utility's outage update and the pharmacy's after-hours contact, then stayed while he made the call. He arranged a safe plan directly with the pharmacist. When he thanked me, I reminded him that he had known what he needed; I had only helped find the right number.
Later Mom sat across from me at the kitchen table while I drafted the service notice. She pointed out that the first version used the phrase “intermittent system availability.” “You mean sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't,” she said. I replaced the phrase. She also noticed that the notice didn't say what to do if a telephone line was busy. We added a second number and an instruction to call emergency services only for actual emergencies. It was a surprisingly effective editing session. I had spent months studying communication, and my mother, with no professional title, had improved it in three minutes.
The next day I told Celeste what had happened. She asked whether Mom might join a future advisory review. I said I would pass along the invitation, not answer for her. When I called, Mom said she wanted to see the time commitment before deciding. Her answer made me smile. The lesson was taking hold in both directions.
At eleven, the building lights came back. My first instinct was to open the portal and see whether the service problem had been solved. Celeste had already instructed staff to use the secure work systems, so I waited until morning.
The next day Naomi's attorney reported that some archived Northstar logs had become temporarily inaccessible during a planned migration. The company's notice described the change as routine. Regulators asked that the records be preserved through the transition. No one had proved an intentional deletion, and we were careful not to suggest otherwise.
I also thought about how the outage would have affected the center's participants if it had lasted all night. Some relied on electricity for equipment or communication, and others had backup plans they preferred to manage privately. Celeste reminded us to review the existing emergency arrangements with each person rather than send a generic warning that assumed the same needs for everyone. We prepared a short checklist for upcoming appointments: preferred contact method, optional backup person, what information could be shared, and whether the participant wanted a printed copy.
When I showed the draft to Mom, she asked why it didn't include a question about pets. I laughed, then realized that evacuating with a service animal or a beloved companion could be an important practical concern. We added a space for individual instructions rather than trying to predict every situation. The resulting form was longer than before, but clearer. Amina said the real test would be whether people could change their answers easily later. I put that question at the top of the next review agenda.
I met Naomi for lunch in a café across from the station, this time with Celeste's approval and without discussing confidential details. She wore a blue scarf and looked as though she hadn't slept.
“When I left the company,” she said, “I thought I could simply take another job and pretend the code was somebody else's problem.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because I remembered a complaint from a woman who said she was told she'd declined a ride she was sitting outside waiting for. She sounded furious. I was angry that support called her confused.”
“Did you know what caused her record?”
“No. I only knew that the system could generate the status without a dispatcher hearing from her.”
That distinction mattered. Naomi did not have a complete theory of wrongdoing. She had evidence about a software function and a warning she believed the company ignored. It was enough to justify investigation; it was not enough to convict a person.
She looked at my wrists. “Do those scars still hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
“People must ask you about them.”
“They do. Usually before they ask anything about my work.”
Naomi looked embarrassed. “I just did.”
I smiled. “You noticed. That's something.”
She told me she'd been attending counseling to manage the stress of becoming a witness. I told her that choosing support was sensible, not an admission that her recollections were unreliable. We talked about coursework and books afterward, enjoying the chance to be two women having lunch rather than two names in a difficult case.
That evening I went to the Moretti house for dinner. Sophie had made place cards out of green construction paper. Mine said HANNAH — NOT IN CHARGE OF THE DISHES. Luca's said DAD — ASK BEFORE HELPING. Mrs. Carter's said GENERAL OF ALL KITCHENS.
He looked at his card and shook his head. “I'm surrounded.”
“By excellent management,” Mrs. Carter said.
We ate vegetable soup and bread Mom had sent. Sophie described a school lesson about magnets with such enthusiasm that she forgot to be nervous about her instrument case. After dinner she played a short tune in the art room. I complimented the part she had practiced most. She looked pleased but not surprised.
Later Luca asked whether he could speak privately. We moved into the small sunroom overlooking the garden. He told me that the external financial review had recommended cutting the old data company out of current Moretti-funded programs while preserving records and contractual obligations for investigation.
“Are you doing it?” I asked.
“Yes. Not by selling the stake and washing my hands. We're putting the transition under independent supervision.”
“Will people who use those services be consulted?”
“The review says they should be. I've instructed the board to fund that process.”
“It's not enough to instruct them. They need authority to disagree with you.”
He smiled tiredly. “Talia has been saying the same thing.”
He took my hand and said quietly, “I spent years building a world where everybody looked to me for permission. Now I have to learn that somebody saying no can be evidence the world is healthier.”
We sat in silence until Sophie called for help finding her stuffed rabbit. Luca rolled toward the doorway, then stopped and asked whether I wanted to come. I did. We found the rabbit in a place no one had thought to check: inside the piano bench, wrapped in a scarf like a sleeping baby.
“That's where he likes to rest,” Sophie explained.
“Then he should leave a forwarding address,” Luca said.
She giggled and carried him away.
May you like
At home, I finally finished my paper. I wrote about the difference between permission and informed choice. The example was fictional, but the lesson was not. A person could say yes to one thing and no to another, and a system had to be capable of respecting both answers at once.
Before bed I checked the two phones on my desk: one personal, one issued by the center. Both were charged. Both were silent. I turned them facedown and let myself sleep without waiting for another emergency.
