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was no defense. As the attending physician, Dr. Metcalf was responsible for everything that happened in the OR, including the negligent actions of his first assistant.
    Carrie sat rigid in her chair and felt a tight band pull across her chest. Her throat had gone Sahara dry, but she could not manage even a sip from the glass of ice water in front of her. They might be talking to Dr. Metcalf, but this meeting was about her. She fixed her gaze on her hands, which were clutched together in her lap. She needed to keep it together.
    â€œGot it,” Knox said. “So I’ll ask again, and pardon my language, but what the fuck happened in there?”
    Carrie lifted her head and somehow found the courage to look Knox in the eyes.
    â€œIt was my mistake,” she said. Her voice came out in a whisper, so she had to repeat herself. Louder. “I’m the one responsible.” Carrie pursed her lips against a sob, a few tears leaking down.
    Julie Stafford’s nursing instincts kicked in, and she put a comforting arm around Carrie’s shaking shoulders. Gently, Julie eased the glass of water closer to Carrie and encouraged her to drink. Carrie couldn’t; she was nauseated with grief.
    Knox appraised Carrie thoughtfully. He bore a sympathetic expression, as did about half of those seated at the table, with Dr. Metcalf being the most notable exception.
    â€œHow did this happen, Dr. Bryant?” Knox asked more mildly.
    Carrie shook her head slowly, still in shock. On the occasions when Carrie checked her cell phone while driving, she tried to imagine what it would feel like to cause a traffic fatality, as a way of weaning herself from the habit. But now she knew. She knew exactly what it felt like. It was a sickening, horrible feeling she would not wish on anybody.
    â€œI put the film up backward,” Carrie said, struggling with her voice. “I should have known—I should have—Mr. Dixon was aphasic, his right side was weaker, he had a right Babinski. All the signs were there to remind me that the problem was in the left hemisphere, but somehow I just forgot. I guess I was tired from my last surgery, but I know that’s not an excuse, I know that. I’m so very sorry to everyone involved.”
    Carrie braved eye contact with everyone at the table, desperate to convey her sincerity. Dr. Metcalf focused on his notepad as if refusing to look at Carrie somehow separated him from her and her mistake.
    â€œHad you reviewed the film prior?” asked Sam Stern, the sixty-five-year-old chief of neurosurgery at Community. It was obvious he would try to shift the blame to another department, and radiology was as good a target as any.
    Carrie swallowed hard. “I reviewed the MRI with Dr. Nugent the day before the surgery,” she said. “I’d seen the films, Sam. I have no excuse.”
    The silence that followed lasted several seconds before Knox spoke up and broke the spell.
    â€œJulie, what’s Mr. Dixon’s status?”
    Julie Stafford had been head nurse on the neurosurgical floor for fifteen years, and a staff nurse at Community for fifteen years before that. She essentially ran the place. Jokes abounded about her supernatural ability to know everything that happened on her floor, even before it seemed to happen. It was a well-established fact that Nurse Stafford could make or break the career of any resident rotating through 4C with just a few choice words. But she’d always been good to Carrie; they shared the same work ethic and commitment.
    â€œMr. Dixon is stable,” Julie said. “But he’s mute and won’t follow any commands. Right now his wife and his brother are with him. They know what happened. Dr. Metcalf hasn’t been in to see him, though.” Dr. Metcalf shot Julie a stern look.
    Carla Mason had been quietly taking notes and looked up over her glasses. “I’ve told him not to,” Carla said.
    â€œI would like to go