At 2:30 a.m., Meredith Vale—twelve years on the floor, tears in her eyes—begged me to cover her shift. "Just sign the night log. I'll be back before rounds." Then words appeared in front of me: Do not sign that sheet. She already pushed the wrong medication into Room 7. The patient is crashing. She is not asking for a favor. She is asking you to put your name on a death. I checked Room 7. Mr. Aldridge's lips were swollen, his pressure dropping. I found the vial in the sharps bin: high-dose diphenhydramine—the exact allergy printed in red on his chart. I stabilized him while Meredith vanished. By dawn, she returned rested, makeup fresh, smiling. On the chart: "Covering nurse arrived 2:15 a.m. Signed below." No signature. Just a blank line waiting for mine. She needs my name. I'm going to make sure it's hers.