You wiped your flour-dusted hands on your apron, motioning for the woman to take a seat at the small bistro table near the window. The rain streaked the glass behind her like tears as she sat, her posture rigid. "I need to understand," you said quietly, pulling out the chair across from her. "Walk me through that night."

The woman's fingers traced the edge of the table, her nails bitten down to the quick. "It was my third double shift," she began, voice hollow. "Pediatric ER was overflowing—hallways lined with gurneys, monitors beeping everywhere." Her breath hitched. "They brought him in from a frat house, blue-lipped and barely breathing. I grabbed what I thought was the standard narcan vial..."

Her hands clenched into fists. "Later, the investigation showed the crash cart had been stocked wrong. The concentration was ten times stronger than it should've been." A bitter smile twisted her lips. "The hospital settled out of court. My supervisor said it was the system's fault... right before they made me the scapegoat."

Outside, thunder rumbled like the growl of some distant beast. The scent of burning sugar suddenly filled the air—the first batch of morning pastries nearing danger. You stood reflexively, but hesitated, struck by the raw anguish in her eyes. Her story had the ring of truth, but the bakery's survival balanced on a knife's edge. The oven timer's insistent beep seemed to echo the pounding of your heart.