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It would be. Professor Kozlov taught political science at Queens College for thirty years – international relations, intelligence studies, a seminar on Cold War covert operations with a waiting list. Her illness didn’t invent the tradecraft. It hired an expert.

“She also checked my vitals while she was here. Adjusted my IV, asked about my sleep. All perfectly routine nursing duties. The message was embedded inside the care. The tradecraft is immaculate. You can’t discipline her for it, because on paper, she was doing her job.”

I stare at Professor Kozlov. Professor Kozlov stares back.

“She reminded me of my department head in 1987,” she continues. “He wanted the faculty lounge renovated and he got three separate committees to recommend it independently before anyone realised he’d started all three committees himself. He was CIA.”

“You think my mother-in-law is CIA.”

“No. Your mother-in-law is better than CIA. The CIA has budget constraints and congressional oversight. Your mother-in-law has no accountability structure or higher authority than herself. She is an independent operator with years of institutional knowledge and likely a network of informants on every floor of this hospital. Dr. York, I say this with respect and genuine alarm – you are outmatched.”

I sit with this assessment. It is, regrettably, the most lucid thing Professor Kozlov has said in six days.

“So what do I do?”

“Comply,” Professor Kozlov says. “Or relocate. Those are the only two options when the asset has this level of operational control. I would recommend faking your own death, but she’s a nurse, Dr. York. She’d demand to see the body. She’d check the chart. You’d be discovered within the week, and then you’d have to explain the faked death and the empty crib.” She picks up her crossword puzzle. “Have the baby, Dr. York. It’s easier than fighting your mother-in-law.”

Luke calls me at 14:30. He does not say hello.

“She told Harmon.”

I close the on-call room door. “Told Harmon what?”

“About adoption. She walked up to Dr. Harmon – during a code blue, Preston. During an active intubation – and asked him if he thought Lucas and Preston had considered adoption. She used our first names. Harmon thought she was making a referral.”

“A referral?”

“For a patient. He thought someone named Lucas and Preston were being discharged to an adoption agency. He spent twenty minutes looking for the chart.”

I sit down on the on-call room cot. “What did you do?”

“I finished the intubation. I walked to the nurses’ station. She was charting.”

“She wasn’t charting.”

“She was pretending to chart. Sitting there with a pen and a face like the Virgin Mary. So I said, ‘Mamá. You told Harmon about adoption. During a code.’ And she turned a page and said–”

“‘I multitask,’” I say, because I know exactly how this story goes.

“She didn’t even look up. So I said, ‘This isn’t funny, this is my workplace,’ and she put the pen down and said, ‘Mijo, I carried you for nine months and pushed you out in fourteen hours and you’re telling me about your workplace? I’ve worked in this building since before you had teeth. Harmon needed to hear it. He’s a father of four – he has context. Now eat your lunch, you look thin.’”

“She called you thin?”

“She calls me thin when she wants to end a conversation. It’s her kill switch. If I say I’m not thin, she feeds me. If I say I am thin, she feeds me. There’s no exit.” Luke’s voice goes flat. “She’s escalating, Preston.”

“I know.”

“This morning she asked the phlebotomist – the new one, the girl who’s scared of her own shadow – if she knew any ‘young families who had recently expanded.’ The girl thought she was running a survey. She started filling out a form.”

“A form?”

“A form that doesn’t exist. She invented a form. Told the girl it was for ‘departmental family planning metrics.’ The girl filed it.”

“Filed it where?”

“HR.”

I close my eyes. “HR has a non-existent form about family planning metrics filed by a phlebotomist who was socially engineered by your mother.”