Abandoned

27

Zareya sat hunched at her desk in the corner of Sienna's hospital room, the dim light from her laptop casting soft shadows across her face. The room was quiet—peacefully so. Sienna was napping, the rise and fall of her small chest steady beneath the hospital blankets, and for the first time that day, the silence felt like a reprieve.

Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, about to shut the laptop and call it for the night, when a soft ping broke the stillness.

New Email: Immediate Meeting Required — Urgent

Her eyes narrowed. Not a subject line she was used to seeing. She clicked it open, expecting a routine update from the admin office.

But her breath caught halfway through the first sentence.

Subject: Immediate Meeting Required: Urgent

Dear Miss Von Klene,

I hope this message finds you well.

I am writing to inform you that there has been a development concerning your recent case with Sienna. Due to certain factors that require immediate attention, we request that you attend a meeting at your earliest convenience today.

This is an urgent matter, and your presence is essential.

Please join me and the other members of the team at the main conference room, 3:30 PM sharp. We will be discussing the next steps regarding your involvement with Sienna's case, and further action will be determined there.

Sincerely,
Dr. Michael Harrison
Chief of Psychology Services

Zareya read it again, slower this time. "Immediate attention." "Next steps." "Further action." The language was clinical—measured—but the implications behind it were anything but neutral.

Her stomach tightened.

She glanced at the clock: 2:47 PM.

Forty-three minutes.

There had been no prior warning. No mention of concerns, no flagged issues in her last reports. Just this sudden summons, with Dr. Harrison himself present—a man who usually kept his distance from individual cases unless something had gone seriously awry.

Her chest buzzed with unease.

She reached for her notebook, flipping it open to the most recent entries on Sienna—small but significant moments: Sienna initiating contact, showing signs of regulation, progress through her communication aid. It had been slow, fragile progress, but it had been progress. Zareya had been careful. Patient. Intentional.

So why did it feel like the ground was about to shift?

Her phone buzzed, and she almost jumped. It was a message from Jenna, her colleague back in Toronto—the one person who knew the full arc of Zareya's journey with Sienna.

Jenna:
"Just saw the internal memo. Dr. Harrison and the hospital social worker are both attending. No one's saying why. Just... stay steady, okay? You've done right by that girl. Don't let them shake that."

Zareya stared at the message, letting the words settle like a warm weight against the rising chill in her chest. She took a long breath, then stood, smoothing down the front of her blouse, grounding herself in the movement.

She'd faced hard rooms before—parents in crisis, courts, ethics panels—but this felt heavier. Not just professional. Personal. Sienna wasn't just another case. She was a child rebuilding trust, inch by inch. And Zareya had been walking that line beside her.

She couldn't afford to misstep now.

Keys in hand, she paused by Sienna's bedside. The girl stirred slightly, her face soft in sleep. Vulnerable. Unaware.

"I'll be back soon, little one," Zareya murmured, brushing a stray curl from her forehead.

Then she turned toward the door. The meeting was waiting. Whatever it was—they'd see her there.

And she would be ready.

The air was too still. Too sterile.

Zareya stepped into the conference room, her heels clicking softly against the linoleum. The blinds were drawn, fluorescent lighting casting everything in a flat, clinical glow. A long table stretched through the center of the room. Around it sat six professionals: Dr. Harrison at the head, clipboard in hand, flanked by a social worker, two hospital administrators, the unit's head nurse, and a legal liaison.

Everyone looked up when she entered.

"Miss Von Klene. Please, have a seat," Dr. Harrison said, his tone polite but clipped. He didn't smile.

Zareya nodded, sitting down slowly. Her notebook rested in her lap, though her hands remained still.

No one spoke at first. Pages rustled. Pens clicked. The silence expanded just enough to stretch her nerves taut.

Then, Dr. Harrison cleared his throat. "Thank you for coming on short notice. This meeting has been convened to address a concern regarding your current involvement in the recovery case of Patient 1439—Sienna."

He didn't use her name. That, in itself, made something twist in Zareya's chest.

The hospital social worker spoke next. "There have been several observations noted over the last few weeks—marked increases in emotional dependency, blurred caregiver roles, and reported inconsistencies in documentation timelines. Most recently, concerns were raised following your decision to remain in her room overnight and initiate physical comfort measures beyond standard protocol."

Zareya swallowed, her voice steady. "Sienna has no consistent attachment figure. Her distress is often non-verbal, and—"

"You're not being accused of malice," Dr. Harrison interrupted gently but firmly. "But there's a growing pattern of enmeshment. You've become emotionally entangled with a patient who is uniquely vulnerable."

Zareya stiffened, but she didn't speak. Not yet.

"We understand the work has been complex," the nurse chimed in, trying to soften the blow. "This isn't about punishment—it's about safeguarding everyone involved. Including you."

The legal liaison opened a folder. "The hospital board has recommended temporary reassignment from Sienna's case. Effective immediately."

It felt like the words didn't land at first.

Zareya blinked, then finally found her voice. "She's just beginning to trust someone. You want to take that away from her now?"

Dr. Harrison's eyes didn't waver. "We want to ensure her progress is grounded in structure, not dependency. Another clinician will be assigned by morning. The transition will be made carefully."

She looked around the table—at faces that weren't cruel, but distant. Neutral. Professional.

"Is that it, then?" she asked quietly. "No warning, no second review?"

"There was discussion," the social worker said. "And consensus. This was not a rushed decision."

Zareya nodded, slowly, but her hands had curled tightly in her lap.

For the first time, she didn't fight. She knew the line had been crossed. Maybe not with ill intent, but with something more dangerous in this field—attachment that blurred objectivity. Still, it didn't make it hurt any less.

She stood.

"I hope you're right," she said quietly. "About what she needs."

And with that, she turned and walked out—holding her head high, but feeling every inch of loss trailing behind her like a shadow.