Still Counting Eleven Breaths a Minute
Protocol says call under ten breaths a minute. Hers keep landing on eleven, and that's still not quite worth waking him.
The protocol is ten breaths a minute. Below that, wake the owner, no matter what time it is. I've been counting since one and she keeps landing on eleven, sometimes twelve if I hold my hand still enough on her side to feel it clean.
Doug's number is a text away, saved as DOUG, MABEL in the file. He said call anytime, he meant it, told me twice at intake like I'd forget. I believe him. That's not the problem.
The problem is I've started rounding down instead of up. Eleven reads like ten if you catch it on the exhale. I keep resetting the timer for one more count, like the number owes me an appeal.
Sanjay's asleep in the back with his feet on the second chair. I could wake him too, get a second opinion, split the deciding in half. I don't.
I put my hand back on Mabel's side and start the count over, quietly rooting for a ten I don't actually want, because a ten means I have to be the one who calls, and an eleven means Doug gets to keep believing this is a night like any other, right up until it isn't.