Rabbit Notes from Overtime

Chapter 2: The Repeat Run

The conference room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and disinfectant. On the wall display, Dana had opened the Cedar Hollow dashboard. I could see the result summary, the run identifier, and the time of submission. Three test plates. Fourteen samples. The only amended result belonged to CH-14.

I leaned toward the screen. "There's no second run listed."

"There was a repeat."

"Then where is its record?"

Dana put her notebook on the table. "The instrument froze during export. The results were preserved in the bench worksheet."

"Whose worksheet?"

"Evan's."

Evan worked in sample intake. He had been at Northstar for eight months. He was careful, but he wasn't authorized to make a final interpretation. That distinction was the whole point of the approval process.

"Did he run the repeat?"

"He did."

"Was it under a separate accession?"

"Not every technical correction requires a new accession."

"If it's a new test result, it does."

Dana gave me a patient look. "You're treating the paperwork as more important than the animals."

"I'm treating the paperwork as the record of what happened to the animals' samples."

She took her pen from her notebook and tapped the printout. "Mara, the first result was borderline. The repeat was negative. The lab director reviewed it. You're the quality sign-off. I need the report released by six."

"Where's the lab director's review?"

"I'll get it."

"Before I approve?"

"I said I'll get it."

I wanted to believe the delay was a simple mistake. Northstar was small enough that one dropped email could leave a document in the wrong folder. The lab director, Dr. Hsu, had a habit of sending comments in the margins of printed pages. It was possible that someone had missed one. It was also possible that Dana was asking me to confirm a result without the record that supported it.

My phone buzzed. June had sent a photo of Mabel. She was curled on the rug, ears slack, one paw tucked under her chest. The picture made the room seem colder.

I called June. "Any change?"

"She's breathing normally," she said. "She's still not eating hay."

"Could you put the carrier by the front door? I'll be there soon."

"Are you still at work?"

"Fifteen minutes."

I ended the call before June could ask whether I meant it.

Dana watched me put the phone down. "Your rabbit?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry she's sick."

"Thanks."

"I can have a car take you to the clinic when we're done."

"I have my car."

"Then let's finish the report."

The document showed a "repeat run" performed at 3:46 p.m. The instrument log had a separate entry at 3:46, but it was labeled "calibration check," not "repeat." The sample map listed CH-14 as a blank control. The worksheet Dana had just printed showed CH-14 as a patient sample.

I read both sheets again.

"These don't match."

"The instrument export was wrong."

"Which one is the primary record?"

"The worksheet."

"Then the worksheet needs a correction note, not a clean report."

Dana folded her hands. "The result is negative. The shelter can't wait on an administrative correction."

I marked the report "hold" and opened the controlled-document system. My access showed the original run but not the supposed repeat. When I searched the instrument's calibration record, it listed no sample load at all. Someone had repurposed an instrument file, or copied a result into the wrong place. Either explanation needed a record of who did it and why.

I looked up. "I can't approve this yet."

Dana lowered her voice. "If we delay, Cedar Hollow keeps the rabbits in isolation overnight."

"They should follow their clinical plan until the result is verified."

"They'll have to pay for another round of tests."

"I know."

"They might cancel the rest of the panel."

"I know."

Her pen stopped tapping. I heard the air conditioner click on above us.

"I'm trying to keep you from making this bigger than it is," she said.

"Then show me the record."

Dana stood. "I'll find Dr. Hsu."

She left me alone with the printouts. I took pictures of the two conflicting pages with my work phone and noted the file names, the time, and the report status. I didn't send them anywhere. I didn't want to accuse anyone before I knew what had happened.

At 5:31, my phone rang. It was the clinic.

I answered on the first ring.

"We've had a cancellation," the receptionist said. "Can you arrive in fifteen minutes?"

I looked at the report. I looked at the clock.

"I can," I said.

When I hung up, Dana came back into the room with a sheet of paper in her hand.

"Dr. Hsu has reviewed it," she said. "Here."

The page was a single printout with "Reviewed" written at the top. No signature. No time. The handwriting looked like Dana's.