Three Seconds to Play God

I switched my patient's chart with another doctor's terminal case because mine deserved to live

more. She was twenty-three. Marathon runner. Kindergarten teacher. His patient was

seventy-eight with no family. Both needed the same rare organ. Protocol said oldest

on the list wins. But I saw her fiancé in the waiting room holding their wedding invitations.

Three seconds. That's how long it took me to swap the names in the system.

She got the transplant. Walked out two weeks later. The old man died that night.

My colleague found the error during audit. Looked me dead in the eye.

I watched him hover over the report button on his screen. He closed the window instead.