A Tale of IV Bags, Identity Crises, and Improbable Triumph
The Sibley Memorial Hospital Infusion Center Pharmacy occupied a peculiar corner of the third floor, nestled between the cafeteria's persistent aroma of overcooked vegetables and the orthopedic wing's symphony of creaking joints. It was here, in this fluorescent-lit sanctuary of sterile technique and pharmaceutical precision, that Vicky Zhu and Shems Alkhatib had established their professional domain.
Vicky Zhu, twenty-eight years old with exactly three months of post-residency experience, approached each day with the enthusiasm of someone who had recently discovered that pharmacists could, in fact, sit down occasionally. Her residency at Johns Hopkins had been a blur of sleepless nights, impossible attending physicians, and the gradual realization that the Krebs cycle, despite its prominence in pharmacy school, rarely came up in actual practice. She had emerged from that crucible with dark circles under her eyes, an encyclopedic knowledge of drug interactions, and a peculiar habit of muttering "check the renal function" in her sleep.
Shems Alkhatib, her colleague and partner in pharmaceutical crime, was twenty-nine and possessed the kind of optimism that could only come from someone who had somehow enjoyed their residency. She had completed her training at the University of Maryland, where she had specialized in oncology pharmacy and developed an unsettling ability to remember the exact dosing protocols for approximately four hundred different chemotherapy regimens. Her friends from pharmacy school often joked that Shems had been born with a drug database instead of a brain, though they said it with affection, mostly.
Together, Vicky and Shems formed a formidable team. The two women could compound a bag of cisplatin with their eyes closed (though hospital policy strongly discouraged this), could spot a dosing error from across the room, and had developed an elaborate system of inside jokes that made absolutely no sense to anyone else in the hospital. Their favorite involved pretending that different chemotherapy agents had distinct personalities. Doxorubicin was a drama queen. Methotrexate was passive-aggressive. Vincristine was that friend who seemed harmless until you forgot to check for peripheral neuropathy.
The infusion center itself was a marvel of modern medicine and bureaucratic compromise. Twelve reclining chairs arranged in a semicircle, each with its own IV pole, each occupied by a patient receiving treatment that cost more than a luxury sedan. The nurses moved between patients with practiced efficiency, checking vitals, adjusting flow rates, and providing the kind of compassionate care that made the difference between a tolerable experience and an unbearable one.
And there, in the back, behind a glass partition that was supposed to provide a sterile environment but mostly just made everyone feel like they were working in an aquarium, Vicky and Shems prepared the medications that would flow through those IV lines. They worked in the laminar flow hood, their hands moving with practiced precision, drawing up medications, adding them to IV bags, labeling everything with the kind of obsessive attention to detail that would make a Swiss watchmaker nod with approval.
It was, by all accounts, a good job. The pay was reasonable. The hours were predictable. The work was meaningful. Vicky and Shems were living the dream that every pharmacy student imagines during their third year when they're memorizing the mechanism of action of every beta-blocker ever synthesized and wondering if they've made a terrible mistake.
But there was one element of the Sibley Memorial Hospital pharmacy that didn't quite fit the modern, efficient image. One anachronism that shuffled through the halls like a ghost from a different era, a different century, possibly a different geological epoch.
His name was Paul Norris.
Paul Norris looked like she had been personally acquainted with the invention of the wheel and had found it a bit too newfangled for his taste. He appeared to be approximately one hundred and forty-seven years old, though hospital records insisted he was thirty-five. These records were clearly lying.
His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, each one telling a story of pharmaceutical trials and tribulations stretching back to when medications were measured in drams and scruples. His hair, what remained of it, was the color of old newspaper, wispy and defiant, refusing to lie flat despite what must have been decades of attempts. His hands shook with a tremor that suggested either essential tremor, Parkinson's disease, or the accumulated weight of having verified approximately seventeen million prescriptions over his impossibly long career.
Paul walked with a cane, though "walked" was perhaps too generous a term. He shuffled. He hobbled. He progressed forward through space with the speed and grace of a glacier, if that glacier had arthritis and was deeply skeptical of the entire concept of movement. Each step was an adventure, a carefully calculated risk, a triumph of determination over the cruel realities of physics and aging.
His voice, when he spoke, sounded like gravel being slowly crushed in a cement mixer. It was the voice of someone who had smoked three packs a day for seventy years, though Paul had never touched a cigarette in his life. It was just naturally gravelly, as if his vocal cords had been replaced with sandpaper sometime in the distant past.
Paul worked in the main pharmacy, down on the first floor, where he spent his days verifying prescriptions with the speed of continental drift. He would peer at each order through glasses so thick they could probably be used to start fires, muttering to himself about "kids these days" and their fancy electronic prescribing systems. He preferred the old paper prescriptions, the ones written in the hieroglyphic scrawl that only pharmacists could decipher, back when pharmacy was a real profession and not just "pushing buttons on a computer."
The younger pharmacists, including Vicky and Shems, regarded Paul with a mixture of pity and bewilderment. How was he still working? Why was he still working? Didn't he have a retirement account? Didn't he have hobbies? Didn't he have literally anything else he could be doing with his time besides shuffling around the hospital, complaining about how they don't make medications like they used to?
But hospital administration kept Paul around for reasons that no one quite understood. Perhaps it was loyalty to a long-serving employee. Perhaps it was fear of an age discrimination lawsuit. Perhaps it was because Paul, despite his appearance and his glacial pace, never made mistakes. Not one. Not ever. In an era where medication errors made headlines and cost hospitals millions, Paul's perfect record was worth its weight in gold, or at least in liability insurance premiums.
Vicky had spoken to Paul exactly three times in her tenure at Sibley Memorial. The first time, she had asked him where the bathroom was. He had stared at her for a full thirty seconds before pointing with one gnarled finger down the hall, then had shuffled away without a word. The second time, she had tried to make small talk about a particularly interesting drug interaction she had caught. Paul had listened with the expression of someone watching paint dry, then had said, "That's nice, dear," and returned to his work. The third time, she had accidentally bumped into him in the hallway, and he had glared at her with such intensity that she had apologized profusely and then avoided that hallway for two weeks.
Shems had fared slightly better. She had managed to have an actual conversation with Paul once, about the proper technique for compounding a particularly tricky IV medication. Paul had explained the process in excruciating detail, including references to techniques that hadn't been used since the 1970s, and Shems had nodded along politely while understanding approximately thirty percent of what was being said. At the end of the explanation, Paul had patted Shems on the shoulder with surprising strength and said, "You'll do fine, young lady, once you learn to stop relying on those damn computers."
So Paul remained a fixture of Sibley Memorial Hospital, a living fossil, a reminder of a bygone era when pharmacists wore white coats that actually stayed white and knew the Latin names for every medication in the formulary. He was part of the furniture, part of the institution, part of the strange ecosystem that made up a modern hospital.
No one, least of all Vicky and Shems, could have predicted that Paul Norris would soon become the most important person in the entire hospital.
But then again, no one could have predicted what was about to happen to Vicky and Shems.
It started on a Tuesday, which was fitting because Tuesdays were generally regarded as the worst day of the week. Mondays had the excuse of being Monday. Wednesdays were hump day. Thursdays were almost Friday. Fridays were Friday. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays were just there, offering nothing but the grim reality that the week had barely started and there was still so much of it left.
Vicky arrived at the infusion center pharmacy at 7:00 AM, as she did every Tuesday, carrying her usual breakfast of a protein bar that tasted like cardboard and regret, and a coffee that was more milk and sugar than actual coffee. She swiped her badge, pushed open the door, and stepped into the pharmacy with the resigned determination of someone about to spend eight hours in a small room with a laminar flow hood.
Shems was already there, which was unusual. Shems was many things—competent, knowledgeable, enthusiastic—but punctual was not typically one of them. She stood in the middle of the pharmacy, staring at the laminar flow hood with an expression that Vicky had never seen on her face before. It was the expression of someone who had just been asked to explain quantum physics using only interpretive dance.
"Morning," Vicky said, setting down her coffee and protein bar. "You're here early."
Shems turned to look at her, and Vicky felt a small flutter of concern. His eyes had a distant, unfocused quality, like someone who had just woken up from a very strange dream and wasn't entirely sure they were actually awake.
"Vicky," he said slowly, "what is this?"
He pointed at the laminar flow hood.
Vicky laughed. "Very funny. Did you stay up too late watching Netflix again?"
"No, I'm serious," Shems said, and there was something in her voice that made Vicky's smile fade. "What is this thing? What are we supposed to do with it?"
Vicky stared at her. "Shems, are you feeling okay? That's the laminar flow hood. We use it to compound sterile preparations. We've been using it every day for three months."
Shems looked at the hood, then back at Vicky, then at the hood again. "Compound? What does that mean?"
The flutter of concern in Vicky's chest became a full-fledged alarm. "Shems, this isn't funny. We have patients waiting for their chemotherapy. We need to start preparing medications."
"Chemotherapy," Shems repeated, as if testing the word in her mouth. "That's... that's for cancer, right?"
"Yes, obviously it's for cancer," Vicky said, her voice rising slightly. "Shems, seriously, what's going on? Are you having a stroke? Should I call someone?"
"I don't think I'm having a stroke," Shems said, though she didn't sound entirely certain. "I just... I can't remember. I can't remember how to do any of this."
Vicky felt a cold sensation spreading through her body, like someone had replaced her blood with ice water. "What do you mean you can't remember?"
"I mean I can't remember," Shems said, her voice taking on a note of panic. "I know I'm a pharmacist. I know I work here. I know we're supposed to be doing something with medications. But I can't remember how. I can't remember any of it. It's like someone reached into my brain and deleted all the files."
Vicky opened her mouth to respond, to say something reassuring, to suggest that maybe she just needed more coffee or a good night's sleep or possibly a CT scan. But before she could speak, she felt something strange happening in her own mind.
It was like watching a sandcastle being washed away by the tide. One moment, the knowledge was there—the procedures, the protocols, the drug names, the dosing calculations, all of it stored neatly in her memory, ready to be accessed. And then, suddenly, it was gone. Not forgotten in the normal way, where you know you knew something but can't quite recall it. This was different. This was complete erasure, as if the information had never existed in the first place.
Vicky looked down at her hands. She knew these hands had done something important, something skilled, something that required years of training. But what? What had they done?
She looked at the laminar flow hood. It was a machine. That much was obvious. But what kind of machine? What was it for?
She looked at Shems, and saw her own confusion and panic reflected in her eyes.
"Shems," she said quietly, "I think I have a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"I can't remember either."
They stood there in the pharmacy, two highly trained healthcare professionals with doctoral degrees and specialized residency training, staring at each other like two people who had just woken up in a stranger's house with no memory of how they got there.
"This is bad," Shems said.
"This is very bad," Vicky agreed.
"What do we do?"
"I have no idea."
At that moment, the phone rang. It was the infusion center nurse, calling to ask when the first batch of chemotherapy would be ready. Mrs. Henderson in chair three was scheduled to start her treatment at 8:00 AM, and it was already 7:30.
Vicky picked up the phone with a shaking hand. "Hello?"
"Hey Vicky, it's Sarah. Just checking on Mrs. Henderson's cisplatin. Is it almost ready?"
Vicky looked at Shems. Shems looked at the laminar flow hood. Neither of them had any idea what cisplatin was, let alone how to prepare it.
"Um," Vicky said, "we're having some... technical difficulties. Can you give us a few minutes?"
"Sure, no problem," Sarah said cheerfully. "Just let me know when it's ready."
Vicky hung up the phone and turned to Shems. "We are in so much trouble."
"Maybe it'll come back," Shems said hopefully. "Maybe this is just temporary. Like when you walk into a room and forget why you went there, except instead of forgetting why we walked into a room, we've forgotten our entire profession."
"That's not reassuring."
"I know."
They spent the next fifteen minutes frantically trying to remember anything—anything at all—about pharmacy. They looked at the medications on the shelves, hoping the names would trigger some memory. They looked at the protocols posted on the wall, hoping the procedures would make sense. They even tried Googling "how to be a pharmacist," which turned out to be less helpful than one might hope.
Nothing worked. The knowledge was simply gone.
At 7:45 AM, with patients waiting and nurses calling, Vicky made a decision. "We need to tell someone. We need to tell administration that we can't do our jobs."
"They'll fire us," Shems said.
"They'll definitely fire us if we try to fake it and kill someone," Vicky pointed out.
Shems couldn't argue with that logic.
They were about to pick up the phone to call their supervisor when they heard a sound in the hallway. A familiar sound. The slow, shuffling, inexorable sound of someone moving through space at the speed of erosion.
The door to the infusion center pharmacy opened, and Paul Norris shuffled in.
Paul Norris stood in the doorway of the infusion center pharmacy, leaning heavily on his cane, looking like a strong breeze might knock him over. His rheumy eyes surveyed the scene: Vicky and Shems standing in the middle of the room, looking panicked and lost, the laminar flow hood sitting unused, the medications waiting to be prepared.
"You two look like you've seen a ghost," Paul said in his gravel-mixer voice.
"Paul," Vicky said, trying to keep her voice steady, "what are you doing up here? You work in the main pharmacy."
"Heard you were having problems," Paul said, shuffling further into the room with agonizing slowness. Each step seemed to take approximately five minutes. "Thought I'd come see if I could help."
"How did you hear we were having problems?" Shems asked. "We just realized it ourselves fifteen minutes ago."
Paul tapped the side of his nose with one gnarled finger. "Been working in hospitals since before you were born, young lady. You develop a sense for these things. Also, Sarah from the infusion center called down to the main pharmacy asking if someone could come help because you two were acting strange."
Vicky and Shems exchanged glances. They hadn't realized their panic had been that obvious.
"Paul," Vicky said carefully, "we're having a... situation. A medical situation. We think we might need to go to the emergency department."
"What kind of situation?" Paul asked, finally completing his journey across the room and leaning against the counter with a sigh of relief.
"We can't remember how to do our jobs," Shems blurted out. "It's like someone erased all our pharmacy knowledge. We don't know how to compound medications. We don't know dosing. We don't know anything."
Paul stared at them for a long moment. Then he started laughing. It was a wheezing, crackling laugh that sounded like it might dislodge something important in his chest.
"You kids and your stress," he said, shaking his head. "Always burning yourselves out. This is what happens when you work too hard and don't take care of yourselves."
"No, Paul, you don't understand," Vicky said urgently. "This isn't stress. This isn't burnout. We literally cannot remember. It's like the information has been deleted from our brains."
Paul's laughter faded, and he looked at them more carefully. "You're serious."
"Completely serious," Shems said.
"Both of you?"
"Both of us."
Paul was quiet for a moment, his ancient face thoughtful. Then he straightened up as much as his bent spine would allow, which wasn't very much, and said, "Well then. I suppose I'll have to handle things up here for a while."
"Paul, you can barely walk," Vicky said, not unkindly. "How are you going to run the infusion center pharmacy by yourself?"
Paul's eyes, which had seemed rheumy and unfocused before, suddenly sharpened. There was something in that gaze, something that Vicky hadn't seen before. Intelligence. Competence. And something else. Something that looked almost like... anticipation?
"You let me worry about that," Paul said. "Now, you two go down to the ED and get yourselves checked out. I'll take care of things here."
"But—" Shems started.
"No buts," Paul said firmly. "Go. I've got this."
There was something in his voice, some note of authority that neither Vicky nor Shems had heard before. It was the voice of someone who was used to being obeyed, someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
Reluctantly, feeling like they were abandoning their posts in the middle of a crisis, Vicky and Shems left the infusion center pharmacy. As they walked down the hall toward the elevators, Vicky looked back over her shoulder.
Through the glass partition, she could see Paul standing in front of the laminar flow hood. She had set down his cane. His hands, which had been shaking with tremors just moments before, were now steady. And as she watched, he began to move.
Not shuffle. Not hobble. Move.
His hands flew across the workspace with a speed and precision that seemed impossible for someone who looked like she had been alive since the Bronze Age. He was pulling medications, drawing up syringes, adding them to IV bags, all with the kind of fluid grace that spoke of decades—no, centuries—of practice.
"Did you see that?" Vicky whispered to Shems.
"See what?"
"Paul. He's... he's moving normally. His hands aren't shaking."
Shems looked back, but by then Paul had returned to her hunched, trembling posture, leaning heavily on his cane as she shuffled to the next task.
"I think the stress is getting to you," Shems said gently. "Come on, let's go get checked out."
But as they rode the elevator down to the emergency department, Vicky couldn't shake the image from her mind. Paul, standing straight and tall, his hands steady and sure, working with a skill that seemed almost superhuman.
Who was Paul Norris, really?
And why had he looked almost happy when they told him they couldn't remember how to do their jobs?
The moment Vicky and Shems disappeared around the corner, Paul Norris straightened up. His spine, which had been bent like a question mark for as long as anyone could remember, suddenly aligned itself into something resembling a normal human posture. The tremor in his hands vanished. The rheumy cloudiness in his eyes cleared, revealing sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing.
Paul set his cane aside—he wouldn't be needing it for a while—and cracked his knuckles with satisfaction. It had been so long. So very, very long since he'd been able to work without pretending to be a decrepit old man who could barely remember his own name.
The truth was, Paul Norris was thirty-five years old. She had graduated from pharmacy school at the top of his class. She had completed not one but two residencies, in both oncology and critical care. She had published papers in prestigious journals. She had been offered positions at some of the most renowned hospitals in the country.
And then, at the age of twenty-eight, she had made a terrible mistake.
She had been too good.
At his previous hospital, Paul had been a rising star. He could compound any medication, solve any drug therapy problem, optimize any treatment regimen. He worked faster than anyone else, more accurately than anyone else, with better outcomes than anyone else. Within six months, she had been promoted to clinical pharmacy manager. Within a year, he was being consulted on the most complex cases in the hospital.
And his colleagues had hated him for it.
Not openly, of course. They smiled to his face and congratulated him on his successes. But behind his back, they whispered. They complained. They said he was making them look bad. They said he was a show-off. They said he was too ambitious, too competitive, too perfect.
The final straw had come when Paul had caught a potentially fatal medication error made by a senior pharmacist. She had reported it, as he was required to do. The error was corrected, the patient was fine, and the senior pharmacist was given a written warning.
Two weeks later, Paul's car had been keyed. His locker had been broken into. Someone had filed an anonymous complaint with the board of pharmacy, alleging that Paul was diverting controlled substances. The investigation had cleared him, but the damage was done.
Paul had realized something important: being the best was dangerous. Being the best made you a target. Being the best meant that everyone else wanted to see you fail.
So Paul had made a decision. He would still be the best—he couldn't help that, it was simply who he was—but he would hide it. He would disguise himself. He would become someone that no one would ever see as a threat.
He would become old.
It had started with the posture. Paul had studied elderly patients, watched how they moved, how they carried themselves. She had practiced the shuffle, the stoop, the careful, tentative movements of someone whose body was betraying them. She had bought a cane and learned to lean on it convincingly.
Then came the appearance. She had stopped using moisturizer, letting his skin become dry and papery. She had adopted a hairstyle that made him look like he was balding. She had started wearing reading glasses with thick lenses that magnified his eyes in an unflattering way.
But the masterstroke had been the tremor. Paul had spent hours practicing the subtle shake of essential tremor, the way the hands quivered when trying to perform fine motor tasks. It was convincing enough that several colleagues had quietly suggested he might want to consider retirement.
And it had worked. At Sibley Memorial Hospital, no one saw Paul as a threat. No one was jealous of him. No one competed with him. He was just the old guy who worked slowly and complained about technology. He was harmless. He was invisible.
But it had been torture.
Every day, Paul had to work at a fraction of his actual speed. Every day, she had to pretend to struggle with tasks that he could complete in seconds. Every day, she had to watch younger, less experienced pharmacists make mistakes that he could have prevented, all because he was too busy maintaining his disguise.
She had been living in a prison of his own making, and she had begun to wonder if he would ever escape.
And then, miraculously, Vicky and Shems had forgotten how to do their jobs.
Paul didn't know what had caused it. He didn't particularly care. What mattered was that, for the first time in seven years, she had a legitimate reason to show what he could really do. He could work at full speed, with full competence, and no one would question it because there was no one else who could do the job.
Paul looked at the stack of orders waiting to be filled. Twelve patients in the infusion center, all needing chemotherapy. Complex regimens, precise dosing, careful calculations. Under normal circumstances, it would take Vicky and Shems most of the morning to prepare everything.
Paul checked his watch. It was 8:00 AM.
He smiled.
By 8:45 AM, every single medication was prepared, labeled, and ready for administration.
Sarah, the infusion center nurse, stared at the row of IV bags lined up on the counter. Each one was perfectly labeled, perfectly prepared, exactly according to protocol. She checked the first bag against the order. Perfect. She checked the second bag. Perfect. She checked all twelve bags.
All perfect.
"Paul," she said slowly, "did you prepare all of these?"
Paul, who had resumed his hunched posture and was leaning heavily on his cane, nodded. "Mmm-hmm."
"All twelve chemotherapy orders?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"In forty-five minutes?"
"Mmm-hmm."
Sarah looked at the bags, then at Paul, then at the bags again. "Paul, it usually takes Vicky and Shems three hours to prepare this many orders."
Paul shrugged, a gesture that looked painful given his apparent physical condition. "I've been doing this a long time, dear. You pick up a few tricks."
"A few tricks?" Sarah repeated. "Paul, this is... this is incredible. I've never seen anyone work this fast."
"Well," Paul said modestly, "I may be old, but I still remember a thing or two."
Sarah took the medications out to the infusion center, shaking her head in amazement. Within minutes, word had spread through the nursing staff. Paul Norris, the ancient pharmacist who could barely walk, had just completed a morning's worth of work in less than an hour.
By lunchtime, the story had reached the pharmacy director.
By the end of the day, it had reached the hospital administrator.
And by the end of the week, Paul Norris had become a legend.
Meanwhile, in the emergency department, Vicky and Shems were having a frustrating morning.
They had explained their situation to the triage nurse, who had looked at them skeptically and asked if they had been drinking. They had explained it again to the ED physician, who had ordered a full neurological workup including CT scan, MRI, blood tests, and a consultation with neurology.
All the tests came back normal.
"I don't understand," Dr. Martinez, the neurologist, said, reviewing their results. "Your brain imaging is completely normal. Your blood work is normal. Your neurological exam is normal. By all objective measures, you're both perfectly healthy."
"But we can't remember how to do our jobs," Vicky insisted. "We're pharmacists. We have doctoral degrees. We completed residencies. And now we can't remember any of it."
Dr. Martinez frowned. "Can you remember other things? Your childhood? Your family? General knowledge?"
Vicky thought about it. "Yes. I remember everything else. I remember going to pharmacy school. I remember taking classes. I just can't remember what I learned in those classes."
"Same here," Shems said. "It's like someone went through my brain with a very specific eraser and deleted only the pharmacy-related information."
"That's... not how memory works," Dr. Martinez said carefully. "Memory isn't stored in discrete, separable units like files on a computer. It's distributed throughout the brain in complex neural networks. You can't selectively delete one type of knowledge while leaving everything else intact."
"And yet," Vicky said, "that's exactly what happened."
Dr. Martinez was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I'm going to be honest with you. I have no idea what's wrong. I've never seen anything like this. I'm going to recommend that you both take medical leave while we figure this out. In the meantime, I'll consult with some colleagues and see if anyone has encountered a similar case."
"Medical leave?" Shems said. "For how long?"
"I don't know," Dr. Martinez admitted. "Until we can either restore your memory or determine that it's permanent."
Vicky and Shems left the emergency department in a daze. They had come hoping for answers, for treatment, for some explanation of what had happened to them. Instead, they had been told that they were medical mysteries, impossible cases, patients with a condition that shouldn't exist.
"What are we going to do?" Shems asked as they stood in the hospital parking lot.
"I have no idea," Vicky said. "I guess we go home and wait?"
"Wait for what?"
"For our memories to come back. Or for someone to figure out what's wrong with us. Or for the universe to make sense again."
They stood there for a moment, two highly educated professionals who had suddenly become completely useless in their chosen field.
"You know what the worst part is?" Shems said.
"What?"
"I can't even remember what a singular is used for."
Vicky stared at him. "What?"
"A singular. You know, the medication delivery device. I know it's important. I know we used them all the time. But I can't remember what they're for."
"Shems," Vicky said slowly, "I don't think 'singular' is a medication delivery device."
"It's not?"
"I don't know. I can't remember either."
They looked at each other, and despite everything, despite the fear and confusion and uncertainty, they started to laugh. It was the kind of laughter that comes from stress and absurdity, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water.
"We are so screwed," Vicky said between gasps of laughter.
"So incredibly screwed," Shems agreed.
They didn't know it yet, but they were about to become even more screwed.
Over the next few weeks, Paul Norris transformed the infusion center pharmacy.
Working alone, he prepared medications faster than Vicky and Shems had ever managed working together. But speed wasn't the only improvement. Paul's preparations were flawless. Not a single error. Not a single deviation from protocol. Every medication was prepared exactly right, every time.
But Paul didn't stop there.
He started reviewing the chemotherapy orders before they were sent to the pharmacy. He noticed that Dr. Chen, one of the oncologists, was consistently ordering cisplatin at a dose that was slightly too high for patients with renal impairment. Paul called him and suggested dose adjustments based on creatinine clearance. Dr. Chen, initially annoyed at being questioned by a pharmacist, reviewed the literature and realized Paul was right. The dose adjustments improved patient outcomes and reduced nephrotoxicity.
Paul noticed that several patients were receiving antiemetics that weren't quite optimal for their chemotherapy regimens. He recommended changes. The patients experienced less nausea and vomiting.
Paul identified a drug interaction that had been missed by the prescribing physician, the dispensing pharmacist, and the administering nurse. He caught it before the medication was given. He potentially saved a life.
Word spread quickly through the hospital. Paul Norris, the decrepit old man who everyone had assumed was just hanging on until retirement, was actually some kind of pharmaceutical genius.
Doctors started consulting him on complex cases. Nurses asked his advice on medication administration. Other pharmacists came to him with questions.
And Paul, maintaining his disguise of extreme age and infirmity, answered every question, solved every problem, optimized every treatment plan.
The hospital's medication error rate dropped by forty percent.
Patient satisfaction scores in the infusion center increased.
The oncology department's outcomes improved measurably.
And through it all, Paul shuffled and trembled and leaned on his cane, looking like he might expire at any moment, while secretly working at a level that no one else in the hospital could match.
Three months after Vicky and Shems had lost their memories, the hospital held a staff meeting. The auditorium was packed with doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and administrators. At the front of the room, the hospital CEO, Margaret Whitmore, stood at a podium.
"I want to talk today about excellence," she began. "About what it means to provide truly exceptional patient care. And I want to talk about someone who embodies that excellence."
She clicked a button, and Paul's employee photo appeared on the screen behind her. It was not a flattering photo. Paul looked like she had been photographed mid-shuffle, his mouth slightly open, his eyes unfocused, his posture suggesting that gravity was winning the eternal battle.
"Paul Norris has worked at Sibley Memorial Hospital for seven years," Margaret continued. "For most of that time, he worked quietly in the main pharmacy, doing his job without fanfare or recognition. But three months ago, when we had a staffing crisis in the infusion center, Paul stepped up."
She clicked to the next slide, which showed a graph of medication error rates over time. There was a dramatic drop starting three months ago.
"Since Paul took over the infusion center pharmacy, our medication error rate has dropped by forty percent. Our patient satisfaction scores have increased by thirty percent. Our oncology outcomes have improved across every metric we measure."
Another click. Another graph, this one showing cost savings.
"Paul has also saved the hospital over two hundred thousand dollars by optimizing medication regimens, reducing waste, and preventing complications that would have required additional treatment."
Margaret paused, letting the numbers sink in.
"But more than that, Paul has demonstrated a level of pharmaceutical knowledge and clinical skill that I have never seen in my twenty years in healthcare administration. He has become a consultant to our entire medical staff. He has mentored our pharmacy team. He has, quite simply, transformed the quality of care we provide to our oncology patients."
She looked out at the audience.
"It is my pleasure to announce that Paul Norris has been named Pharmacist of the Year, not just for Sibley Memorial Hospital, but for the entire Mid-Atlantic region."
The auditorium erupted in applause. Paul, sitting in the back row, shuffled to his feet with apparent difficulty and made his way slowly to the front of the room. It took him approximately five minutes to reach the podium, during which time the applause gradually died down and was replaced by an awkward silence as everyone watched him shuffle.
Finally, Paul reached the podium. Margaret handed him a plaque. He took it with shaking hands and peered at it through his thick glasses.
"Thank you," he said in his gravel-mixer voice. "I'm just doing my job."
"Paul," Margaret said, "you're being modest. What you've accomplished is extraordinary."
Paul shrugged, a gesture that looked like it might dislocate something. "I've been doing this a long time. You learn a few things."
"Paul," Margaret said, and there was something in her voice that made everyone in the auditorium lean forward, "I have a question for you."
"Yes?"
"How old are you?"
There was a long pause. Paul looked at Margaret. Margaret looked at Paul. The entire auditorium held its breath.
"Thirty-five," Paul said finally.
The auditorium exploded in shocked murmurs.
"Thirty-five?" someone called out. "You look like you're ninety!"
Paul allowed himself a small smile. "I've had a hard life."
The revelation that Paul was only thirty-five years old sent shockwaves through the hospital. How could someone so young look so old? Was it a medical condition? Premature aging? Some kind of rare genetic disorder?
The hospital's occupational health department insisted that Paul undergo a complete medical evaluation. Paul, knowing he couldn't refuse without raising even more questions, agreed.
The results were shocking.
Paul was in perfect health. His cardiovascular system was that of a twenty-year-old athlete. His bone density was excellent. His organ function was optimal. His bloodwork showed no signs of any disease or disorder.
"I don't understand," Dr. Patel, the occupational health physician, said, reviewing the results. "According to these tests, you're one of the healthiest people I've ever examined. But you look..."
"Old?" Paul supplied helpfully.
"Well, yes."
Paul sighed. She had known this moment would come eventually. She had hoped it would be later, but apparently the universe had other plans.
"It's not a medical condition," Paul said. "It's a choice."
"A choice?"
"I make myself look old on purpose."
Dr. Patel stared at him. "Why would you do that?"
And so Paul told him the story. About being too good at his job. About the jealousy and resentment of his colleagues. About the harassment and the false accusations. About his decision to hide his abilities behind a disguise of extreme age and infirmity.
"For seven years," Paul said, "I've been pretending to be a decrepit old man so that no one would see me as a threat. So that I could just do my job without anyone trying to sabotage me."
"That's..." Dr. Patel searched for words. "That's incredibly sad."
"It worked," Paul said simply. "Until Vicky and Shems forgot how to do their jobs, and I had to reveal what I could really do."
"And now?"
"Now I suppose everyone knows. The disguise is blown. I'll probably have to find a new hospital, start over somewhere else."
Dr. Patel was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Or you could stay here and just be yourself."
"You don't understand," Paul said. "Being myself is what got me in trouble in the first place."
"That was at a different hospital, with different people. Things might be different here."
Paul wanted to believe that. He really did. But seven years of hiding had made him cautious, skeptical, afraid to hope.
"We'll see," he said.
Margaret Whitmore called Paul into her office the next day. Paul shuffled in, still maintaining his disguise out of habit, and lowered himself carefully into a chair.
"Paul," Margaret said, "I've been thinking about your situation."
"My situation?"
"The fact that you're a thirty-five-year-old pharmaceutical genius who's been pretending to be ninety for the past seven years."
"Ah. That situation."
Margaret leaned forward. "Paul, I'm going to be direct with you. You're the best pharmacist I've ever seen. Your clinical knowledge is extraordinary. Your technical skills are unmatched. Your ability to optimize patient care is remarkable. And I want to make sure you stay at Sibley Memorial Hospital."
"I appreciate that," Paul said carefully, "but I'm not sure—"
"I'm not finished," Margaret interrupted. "I don't just want you to stay. I want to build something around you. I want to create a center of excellence in oncology pharmacy, with you as the director. I want to recruit the best oncology pharmacists in the country to work with you. I want to establish research programs, clinical trials, educational initiatives. I want to make Sibley Memorial Hospital the premier destination for cancer treatment in the region, and I want you to be the foundation of that program."
Paul stared at her. "You want to make me the director?"
"I want to make you more than the director. I want to make you the face of our oncology program. I want your name on publications, on presentations, on the building if necessary. I want everyone to know that if they want the best cancer care, they come to Sibley Memorial Hospital, and they come because of Paul Norris."
"But..." Paul struggled to find words. "But that's exactly what I've been trying to avoid. Being visible. Being recognized. Being the best."
"I know," Margaret said. "And I understand why you've been hiding. But Paul, you can't hide forever. You're too talented. What you can do is too important. And frankly, it's a waste of your abilities to spend your time pretending to be someone you're not."
"What if the same thing happens again?" Paul asked quietly. "What if people resent me? What if they try to sabotage me?"
"Then I'll fire them," Margaret said simply. "Paul, I'm not going to let anyone harass you or undermine you. You have my full support, and you'll have the support of the entire administration. We want you to succeed. We need you to succeed."
Paul was quiet for a long moment. Seven years of hiding. Seven years of working at a fraction of his ability. Seven years of being invisible.
Was it time to stop hiding?
"Can I think about it?" he asked.
"Of course," Margaret said. "Take all the time you need. But Paul? I really hope you say yes."
Paul thought about it for exactly twenty-four hours. Then he called Margaret and accepted her offer.
The transformation was immediate and dramatic.
First, Paul stopped pretending to be old. He stood up straight, revealing that he was actually quite tall. He stopped shuffling and started walking normally. He got rid of the thick glasses and the cane. He started dressing in well-fitted clothes instead of the baggy, shapeless garments she had been wearing.
The change was so dramatic that several staff members didn't recognize him. One nurse actually asked if he was Paul's son.
But the physical transformation was nothing compared to what Paul did with the oncology pharmacy program.
Within a month, she had recruited three additional oncology pharmacists, all highly trained specialists who were excited to work with someone of Paul's caliber. He established protocols for every aspect of chemotherapy preparation and administration. He created a quality assurance program that caught errors before they reached patients.
Within three months, she had initiated two clinical trials investigating novel chemotherapy regimens. She had published three papers in peer-reviewed journals. She had presented at a national pharmacy conference, where his talk on optimizing chemotherapy dosing was standing room only.
Within six months, Sibley Memorial Hospital's oncology program had become one of the most respected in the region. Patients were traveling from other states to receive treatment there. Oncologists were requesting privileges just so they could work with Paul and his team.
And through it all, Paul worked with a joy and enthusiasm that he hadn't felt in years. He was finally able to be himself, to use his full abilities, to do the work he was meant to do.
He was, for the first time in seven years, happy.
One year after Paul had taken over the infusion center pharmacy, Margaret Whitmore called another staff meeting. Once again, the auditorium was packed. Once again, Margaret stood at the podium.
"A year ago," she began, "I stood here and told you about Paul Norris and his extraordinary contributions to our hospital. At the time, I thought I understood the full extent of his abilities. I was wrong."
She clicked to a slide showing statistics. The numbers were staggering.
"In the past year, our oncology program has grown by two hundred percent. Our patient outcomes have improved across every metric. Our research program has attracted over five million dollars in grant funding. We have been recognized by the American College of Clinical Pharmacy as having one of the top oncology pharmacy programs in the country."
Another slide, this one showing national rankings.
"We are now ranked in the top ten hospitals for cancer care in the United States. We are receiving patients from across the country and around the world. And all of this—all of it—is because of the program that Paul Norris has built."
She paused, looking out at the audience.
"It is for this reason that the board of directors has made a decision. Effective immediately, Sibley Memorial Hospital will be renamed."
A murmur ran through the auditorium.
"From this day forward, this institution will be known as Paul Norris Hospital."
The auditorium erupted. Some people were applauding. Some people were shocked. Some people were confused. Paul, sitting in the front row this time, looked like he might faint.
"Furthermore," Margaret continued, "we are establishing the Paul Norris Center for Oncology Research, a dedicated facility that will house our clinical trials, our research laboratories, and our educational programs. Construction will begin next month."
She looked directly at Paul.
"Paul, you have transformed this hospital. You have saved lives. You have advanced the field of oncology pharmacy. You have inspired everyone who works here to strive for excellence. It is only fitting that this hospital bear your name."
Paul stood up, and this time he didn't shuffle or shake or lean on anything. He walked to the podium with confidence and grace.
"I don't know what to say," he began. "A year ago, I was hiding who I was, afraid to show what I could do. Today, I'm standing in front of you as myself, and you're naming a hospital after me. It's overwhelming."
He paused, collecting his thoughts.
"But I want to be clear about something. This isn't just about me. This is about what we can accomplish when we create an environment where people can be their best selves. Where talent is recognized and nurtured instead of resented and suppressed. Where excellence is celebrated instead of punished."
He looked out at the audience.
"I spent seven years hiding because I was afraid of what would happen if I showed what I could do. I don't want anyone else to ever feel that way. I want this hospital—Paul Norris Hospital—to be a place where everyone can reach their full potential. Where being the best doesn't make you a target, it makes you a leader."
The applause was thunderous.
While Paul was being celebrated and honored, Vicky and Shems were having a significantly worse time.
It had started innocently enough. After three months of medical leave, during which numerous specialists had examined them and found nothing wrong, Vicky and Shems had been called in for a meeting with hospital administration.
"We're very sorry," the HR director had said, "but we can't keep your positions open indefinitely. Since the doctors can't find anything medically wrong with you, and you still can't perform your job duties, we're going to have to let you go."
Vicky and Shems had expected this. What they hadn't expected was what came next.
"Furthermore," the HR director continued, "the hospital is filing a complaint with the board of pharmacy. You both claimed to have completed pharmacy school and residency training, but you clearly don't have the knowledge and skills that such training should provide. We believe you may have falsified your credentials."
"What?" Vicky had said, shocked. "We didn't falsify anything! We really did go to pharmacy school! We really did complete residencies! We just... forgot!"
"That's not medically possible," the HR director said. "According to every neurologist who examined you, selective memory loss of this type doesn't exist. The only logical explanation is that you never had this knowledge in the first place."
"But we have diplomas! Transcripts! References!"
"Which you could have forged. The board of pharmacy will investigate."
The board of pharmacy investigation had been a nightmare. Vicky and Shems had provided every piece of documentation they had—diplomas, transcripts, letters of recommendation, residency certificates. They had contacted their former professors and preceptors, all of whom confirmed that yes, Vicky and Shems had been excellent students and residents.
But when the board had tested their current knowledge, they had failed spectacularly. They couldn't answer basic questions about pharmacology. They couldn't calculate simple dosing equations. They couldn't identify common medications.
The board had been faced with a paradox: all the evidence suggested that Vicky and Shems had legitimately completed their training, but they clearly didn't have the knowledge they should have gained from that training.
Unable to resolve this paradox, and under pressure to protect public safety, the board had revoked their pharmacy licenses pending further investigation.
Without licenses, Vicky and Shems couldn't work as pharmacists. Without jobs, they couldn't pay their bills. They had both moved back in with their parents, a humiliating experience for two people in their late twenties with doctoral degrees.
And then things had gotten worse.
A patient who had received chemotherapy during the brief period when Vicky and Shems were working in the infusion center had experienced complications. The patient's lawyer had filed a lawsuit, claiming that Vicky and Shems had been practicing pharmacy without proper knowledge or credentials, and that their negligence had caused harm.
The lawsuit had been a disaster. Vicky and Shems had tried to explain what had happened—that they had legitimately been trained pharmacists who had mysteriously lost their knowledge—but it sounded absurd. The jury hadn't believed them.
They had been found liable for negligence and fraud. The judgment had been for two million dollars, which neither of them had.
And then, because the universe apparently had a vendetta against them, the prosecutor had decided to file criminal charges. Practicing pharmacy without a license. Fraud. Reckless endangerment.
The trial had been swift and brutal. The evidence was overwhelming. Vicky and Shems couldn't perform basic pharmacy tasks. They had been working in a hospital pharmacy despite this inability. A patient had been harmed.
The jury had deliberated for less than two hours.
Guilty on all counts.
The judge had sentenced them each to two years in county jail.
And so, one year after they had mysteriously forgotten how to do their jobs, Vicky Zhu and Shems Alkhatib found themselves sitting in a county jail cell, wearing orange jumpsuits, wondering how their lives had gone so spectacularly wrong.
County jail was not what Vicky and Shems had expected. They had imagined something out of a TV show—violent criminals, gang fights, constant danger. The reality was much more boring.
Most of their fellow inmates were there for non-violent offenses: drug possession, DUI, fraud, theft. The days were monotonous. Wake up at 6 AM. Breakfast at 7 AM. Recreation time at 9 AM. Lunch at noon. More recreation time at 2 PM. Dinner at 5 PM. Lights out at 10 PM.
Vicky and Shems spent most of their time in the jail library, which was surprisingly well-stocked. They read books, worked on puzzles, and tried to figure out what had happened to them.
"I've been thinking," Shems said one day, about three months into their sentence. "What if it wasn't natural?"
"What do you mean?" Vicky asked, looking up from the mystery novel she was reading.
"The memory loss. What if someone did this to us on purpose?"
Vicky frowned. "Why would anyone do that?"
"I don't know. But think about it. Selective memory loss of this type doesn't exist, right? That's what every doctor told us. So if it doesn't exist naturally, maybe it was induced artificially."
"Like what, some kind of drug?"
"Or a device. Or hypnosis. Or something we haven't even thought of."
Vicky considered this. "But who would do that? And why?"
"I don't know," Shems admitted. "But it's the only explanation that makes sense. We didn't fake our credentials. We really were trained pharmacists. Something happened to us."
"Even if that's true," Vicky said, "how does it help us? We're in jail. We have no resources. We can't investigate anything."
"No," Shems agreed, "but we can think about it. We can try to remember what happened that day. Maybe there's a clue we missed."
So they started going over that Tuesday morning in excruciating detail. What had they eaten for breakfast? What had they done the night before? Had they encountered anyone unusual? Had anything strange happened?
They couldn't find anything. It had been a completely ordinary morning, right up until the moment when their memories had vanished.
"Wait," Vicky said suddenly. "Do you remember what we were talking about the day before?"
"The day before the memory loss?"
"Yeah. Monday. We were in the pharmacy, and we were talking about something. Something about Paul."
Shems thought back. "Oh yeah. We were saying how weird it was that he was still working. How he looked like he should have retired decades ago."
"And then you said something. You said... what was it? You said you'd heard a rumor about him."
"I did?"
"Yeah. You said someone told you that Paul wasn't actually old. That he was just pretending."
Shems's eyes widened. "I did say that. I'd completely forgotten. One of the pharmacists from the main pharmacy mentioned it. She said Paul was only in his thirties, but he made himself look old for some reason."
"And then the next day, we forgot how to do our jobs."
They looked at each other.
"You don't think..." Vicky began.
"That Paul somehow made us forget?" Shems finished. "That sounds insane."
"Everything about this situation is insane."
"But how would he even do that? And why?"
"I don't know," Vicky said. "But think about what happened after we forgot. Paul took over the infusion center pharmacy. He became this huge success. The hospital was renamed after him. He became famous."
"So you're saying Paul somehow erased our memories so he could take our jobs and become a star?"
"I'm saying it's suspicious."
"It's more than suspicious," Shems said. "It's diabolical. But we have no proof. We have no evidence. We have nothing but a theory that sounds like a conspiracy theory."
"Then we need to find proof," Vicky said.
"How? We're in jail."
"We get out in nine months. When we get out, we investigate. We find out what Paul did to us. And we make him pay."
It wasn't much of a plan. But it was all they had.
As the months passed, Vicky and Shems became increasingly obsessed with one particular mystery: the singular.
They both remembered that "singular" was important. They both remembered that it was related to pharmacy. But neither of them could remember what it actually was or what it was used for.
"It's driving me crazy," Vicky said one day in the recreation yard. "I know I knew this. I know I used it all the time. But I can't remember."
"Maybe it's a brand name for something?" Shems suggested.
"Maybe. Or maybe it's a type of device. Or a technique. Or a protocol."
They asked the jail librarian if they could get pharmacy textbooks. The librarian, bemused by the request, managed to obtain a few outdated pharmacy references. Vicky and Shems pored over them, looking for any mention of "singular."
They found nothing.
"What if we made it up?" Shems said one day. "What if 'singular' isn't actually a real thing, and we just think it is because our memories are scrambled?"
"No," Vicky said firmly. "I remember it. I remember using it. I remember it being important. It's real."
"Then why can't we find it in any textbook?"
"I don't know. Maybe it's too new. Maybe it's too specialized. Maybe we're looking in the wrong place."
The singular became their white whale, the one piece of knowledge they were desperate to recover. They talked about it constantly. They theorized about it. They dreamed about it.
Other inmates started to notice.
"What's a singular?" one of them asked during lunch one day.
"We don't know," Vicky admitted. "We just know it's important."
"Sounds like you two need to let it go," the inmate said. "You're obsessing."
"We can't let it go," Shems said. "It's the key to everything. If we can remember what a singular is, maybe we can remember everything else."
But the memory never came. The singular remained a mystery, a tantalizing piece of knowledge that hovered just out of reach, mocking them with its inaccessibility.
While Vicky and Shems were obsessing over singulars in county jail, Paul was building an empire.
The Paul Norris Center for Oncology Research had opened to great fanfare. It was a state-of-the-art facility with the latest equipment, the best researchers, and funding from multiple sources including the National Cancer Institute.
Paul had recruited a team of pharmacists, physicians, nurses, and researchers who were all at the top of their fields. Together, they were conducting groundbreaking research into new cancer treatments, optimizing existing therapies, and improving patient outcomes.
Paul himself had become something of a celebrity in the pharmaceutical world. He was invited to speak at conferences around the world. His papers were cited thousands of times. He was consulted on the most complex cases from hospitals across the country.
She had also become wealthy. The hospital paid him a substantial salary as director of the oncology center. He received consulting fees from pharmaceutical companies. She had equity in several biotech startups that were developing drugs based on his research.
Paul Norris, who had spent seven years pretending to be a decrepit old man, was now one of the most successful and respected pharmacists in the world.
And she had done it all by himself, without any help from Vicky or Shems.
In fact, Paul rarely thought about Vicky and Shems anymore. He had heard that they had been fired, that they had lost their licenses, that they had been sued and eventually jailed. He felt a small twinge of guilt about this—after all, their misfortune had been his opportunity—but he pushed it aside.
He hadn't caused their memory loss. She had just taken advantage of it. That wasn't wrong, was it?
Besides, he was doing important work. He was saving lives. He was advancing science. Surely that justified any collateral damage along the way.
Paul stood in his office on the top floor of the Paul Norris Center for Oncology Research, looking out over the city. She had everything she had ever wanted: recognition, respect, success, wealth. He was finally able to be himself, to use his full abilities, to make a real difference in the world.
He should have been happy.
So why did he feel so empty?
Vicky and Shems were released from county jail on a cold Tuesday morning in November, exactly two years after they had mysteriously forgotten how to do their jobs.
They walked out of the jail with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a small amount of money that had been in their accounts when they were incarcerated. They had no jobs, no licenses, no prospects, and no idea what to do next.
"Well," Shems said, standing on the sidewalk outside the jail, "that was terrible."
"Agreed," Vicky said.
"What now?"
"Now we figure out what Paul did to us. And we make him pay."
They started with research. They went to the public library and spent hours reading about Paul Norris and his meteoric rise. They read about the Paul Norris Center for Oncology Research. They read about his publications, his awards, his accolades.
"He's done well for himself," Shems said bitterly.
"He's done well for himself using our jobs," Vicky corrected. "If we hadn't forgotten how to be pharmacists, he never would have had the opportunity to show what he could do."
"So how do we prove he caused it?"
"I don't know. But there has to be evidence somewhere. People don't just forget their entire profession overnight. Something happened to us, and Paul is the only person who benefited from it."
They tried to get appointments with Paul, but he was too busy. They tried to visit the Paul Norris Center for Oncology Research, but security wouldn't let them in without an appointment. They tried calling, emailing, even showing up at his house, but Paul was unreachable.
"He's avoiding us," Vicky said.
"Of course he's avoiding us. He knows we're suspicious."
"So what do we do?"
"We find someone who will listen to us. Someone who has the authority to investigate."
They went to the police, but the police weren't interested. "You're convicted criminals," the detective said bluntly. "You were found guilty of fraud and practicing pharmacy without a license. Why would we believe anything you say?"
They went to the board of pharmacy, but the board had already investigated and revoked their licenses. "The case is closed," the board president said. "You had your chance to defend yourselves at the hearing."
They went to a lawyer, but the lawyer just laughed. "You want to sue Paul Norris? The Paul Norris? The most respected pharmacist in the country? Based on what evidence? A theory that he somehow made you forget your entire profession? Good luck finding anyone who will take that case."
Everywhere they turned, doors were closed. No one would listen. No one would help. No one believed them.
"We're screwed," Shems said one night as they sat in the cheap motel room they were sharing because neither of them could afford their own place. "We have no evidence, no credibility, no resources. Paul has won."
"No," Vicky said firmly. "We're not giving up. There has to be a way."
"What way? We've tried everything."
"Then we'll try something else. We'll find evidence. We'll prove what he did. We'll get our lives back."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But we'll figure it out."
Vicky stared at the ceiling of the motel room, her mind racing. Somewhere out there was the truth about what had happened to them. Somewhere out there was evidence that would prove Paul's guilt.
She just had to find it.
The breakthrough came from an unexpected source: a janitor.
Vicky and Shems had been hanging around outside the Paul Norris Center for Oncology Research for weeks, hoping to catch Paul coming or going, hoping to find some way to talk to her. They never did—Paul apparently had a private entrance and parking garage—but they did meet a lot of the center's staff.
One of them was Marcus, a night janitor who worked the late shift cleaning the research laboratories. Marcus was friendly and talkative, and he didn't seem to care that Vicky and Shems were convicted criminals with a grudge against her employer.
"Paul's a good boss," Marcus said one night when he came out for a smoke break and found Vicky and Shems sitting on a bench across the street. "Pays well, treats people with respect. Not like some of the doctors around here."
"That's great," Vicky said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "He sounds like a real saint."
"You two really think he did something to you?" Marcus asked.
"We know he did," Shems said. "We just can't prove it."
Marcus was quiet for a moment, smoking his cigarette. Then he said, "You know, there is something weird about Paul."
Vicky and Shems both sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I clean his office every night, right? And he's got this locked cabinet in there. Big thing, takes up half the wall. I asked him once what was in it, and he got really defensive. Said it was private research materials and I should never try to open it."
"That doesn't sound that weird," Shems said. "Lots of people have locked cabinets."
"Yeah, but here's the thing. One night, about a month ago, I was cleaning and I heard a noise from inside the cabinet. Like a humming sound. I put my ear up to it, and I could definitely hear something electronic running in there."
"Electronic?" Vicky said. "Like what?"
"I don't know. But it's not just papers or files. There's some kind of equipment in there. And Paul checks on it every day. I've seen him. He comes in, unlocks the cabinet, looks at whatever's inside, then locks it again. He's very careful about it."
Vicky and Shems looked at each other.
"Marcus," Vicky said slowly, "would you be willing to help us find out what's in that cabinet?"
Marcus took a long drag on his cigarette. "I could lose my job."
"We could give you money," Shems said, then realized they had no money to give.
"I don't want money," Marcus said. "But I'll tell you what. If Paul really did something to you, if he really hurt you somehow, then he should face consequences. I'll help you. But you have to promise me something."
"What?"
"If we find evidence, you go to the authorities. You don't try to handle this yourselves. You do it the right way."
"We promise," Vicky said.
"Okay then," Marcus said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Let's figure out how to get into that cabinet."
They planned the operation for a Friday night. Paul always left early on Fridays to attend a standing dinner with other hospital administrators. Marcus would let Vicky and Shems into the building through a service entrance. They would have approximately two hours to get into Paul's office, open the cabinet, document whatever was inside, and get out before Paul returned.
It was risky. If they were caught, they would be arrested for breaking and entering, which would violate their parole and send them back to jail. But they were desperate, and desperate people do desperate things.
Friday night arrived. Marcus met them at the service entrance at 7:00 PM.
"You sure about this?" he asked.
"We're sure," Vicky said, though her hands were shaking.
They made their way through the building, taking service corridors and back stairways to avoid security cameras. Marcus had mapped out a route that minimized their exposure. Finally, they reached Paul's office on the top floor.
The door was locked, but Marcus had a master key. They slipped inside.
Paul's office was impressive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. Expensive furniture. Framed awards and certificates covering the walls. And there, against the far wall, was the cabinet Marcus had described.
It was indeed large, taking up most of the wall. It was made of heavy metal with a sophisticated electronic lock.
"How are we supposed to open that?" Shems asked.
"I have an idea," Marcus said. He pulled out a small electronic device. "Lock pick. Got it off Amazon. Supposed to work on most electronic locks."
"You bought a lock pick off Amazon?" Vicky said.
"Hey, you'd be surprised what you can buy on Amazon."
Marcus went to work on the lock. Vicky and Shems kept watch, their hearts pounding. Every sound in the building made them jump. Every footstep in the hallway made them freeze.
After what felt like hours but was probably only ten minutes, there was a click.
"Got it," Marcus said.
The cabinet door swung open.
Inside was equipment. Lots of equipment. Electronic devices with screens and buttons and wires. Computers. Hard drives. And in the center, a device that looked like something out of a science fiction movie: a helmet with electrodes and a complex array of sensors.
"What is that?" Shems whispered.
Vicky stepped closer, examining the equipment. There were labels on some of the devices. "Neural interface," one read. "Memory modification system," read another. "Targeted knowledge erasure protocol," read a third.
"Oh my God," Vicky said. "He really did it. He really erased our memories."
"Take pictures," Marcus said urgently. "Document everything."
Vicky pulled out her phone and started taking pictures. She photographed the equipment, the labels, the computer screens. She opened drawers and found files—research notes, experimental protocols, test results.
And then she found something that made her blood run cold.
It was a file labeled "Test Subjects: Zhu and Alkhatib."
She opened it with shaking hands. Inside were detailed notes about her and Shems. Their schedules. Their routines. Their coffee preferences. Everything Paul would need to know to dose them with whatever drug or device she had used.
And there, at the bottom of the file, was a note in Paul's handwriting: "Subjects successfully treated with memory modification protocol on Tuesday, 7:00 AM. Complete erasure of pharmaceutical knowledge achieved. Subjects show no awareness of treatment. Protocol successful. Ready for broader application if needed."
"He drugged us," Vicky said, her voice shaking. "He put something in our coffee. That's why we forgot. He deliberately erased our memories so he could take our jobs."
"That's enough evidence," Marcus said. "We need to go. Now."
They took as many pictures as they could, grabbed the file about themselves, and carefully closed the cabinet. Marcus locked it again, and they made their way back through the building.
They had just reached the service entrance when they heard a voice behind them.
"Going somewhere?"
They turned. Paul Norris stood in the hallway, no longer hunched or trembling, standing tall and straight, his eyes cold and hard.
"I came back early," Paul said. "I had a feeling someone might try something like this. You two never were very subtle."
"We have evidence," Vicky said, holding up her phone. "We have pictures of your equipment. We have your notes. We know what you did to us."
Paul smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "And who's going to believe you? You're convicted criminals. I'm one of the most respected pharmacists in the world. You have no credibility."
"We have proof," Shems said.
"Proof that you obtained by breaking into my office," Paul pointed out. "Illegally obtained evidence. Inadmissible in court. And even if it wasn't, I have lawyers. Very good lawyers. Very expensive lawyers. They'll tie you up in litigation for years. You'll be bankrupt before you ever get to trial."
"So you're just going to get away with it?" Vicky said. "You're going to ruin our lives and face no consequences?"
Paul shrugged. "I didn't ruin your lives. You ruined your own lives by being mediocre. I just gave myself an opportunity to show what I could really do. And look what I've accomplished. Look at the lives I've saved. Look at the research I've conducted. The world is better off with me running the oncology center instead of you two."
"You're a monster," Shems said.
"I'm a pragmatist," Paul corrected. "And now, I'm going to call security. You're going to be arrested for breaking and entering. You're going to go back to jail. And I'm going to continue my important work."
He pulled out his phone.
And then Marcus hit him over the head with a fire extinguisher.
Paul crumpled to the floor, unconscious but breathing.
"Oh God," Marcus said, staring at the fire extinguisher in his hands. "Oh God, I just assaulted Paul Norris."
"You saved us," Vicky said. "Thank you."
"We need to go," Shems said urgently. "Now. Before he wakes up or someone finds him."
They ran. Out of the building, across the parking lot, into the night. They didn't stop running until they were several blocks away, gasping for breath in an alley.
"What do we do now?" Marcus asked. "He's going to call the police. We're all going to jail."
"Not if we go to the authorities first," Vicky said. She pulled out her phone. "We have evidence. We have his notes. We have pictures of his equipment. We go to the police, we tell them everything, and we show them the proof."
"Will they believe us?" Shems asked.
"They have to," Vicky said. "We have proof."
They went to the police station. They asked to speak to a detective. They laid out everything: the memory loss, the investigation, the jail time, the discovery of Paul's equipment, the evidence they had gathered.
The detective listened skeptically at first. But as they showed him the pictures, the notes, the file with their names on it, his expression changed.
"This is serious," he said. "If what you're saying is true, this is assault, maybe even attempted murder. Using an experimental device to erase someone's memory without their consent..."
"It's true," Vicky said. "All of it."
"I'm going to need to verify this," the detective said. "I'm going to need to get a warrant and search Paul Norris's office."
"He's going to destroy the evidence," Shems said. "As soon as he wakes up, he's going to get rid of everything."
"Then we better move fast," the detective said.
The police raided the Paul Norris Center for Oncology Research at 3:00 AM. They found Paul in his office, frantically trying to dismantle the equipment in the cabinet.
They arrested him on the spot.
The news broke the next morning. "Renowned Pharmacist Arrested for Illegal Human Experimentation." The story was everywhere: newspapers, television, social media. Paul Norris, the celebrated director of the oncology center, the man who had a hospital named after him, had been using an experimental memory modification device on unwitting subjects.
The investigation expanded rapidly. Police found evidence that Vicky and Shems weren't Paul's only victims. There were files on dozens of other people: colleagues who had been too competitive, supervisors who had questioned his methods, rivals who had threatened his position. Paul had been using his device for years, carefully erasing the memories and abilities of anyone who stood in his way.
The pharmaceutical community was shocked. The hospital was mortified. The board of directors held an emergency meeting and voted unanimously to remove Paul's name from the hospital. Paul Norris Hospital became Sibley Memorial Hospital once again.
Paul's trial was swift. The evidence was overwhelming. He was convicted of assault, illegal human experimentation, fraud, and a dozen other charges. He was sentenced to twenty years in federal prison.
And Vicky and Shems? Their convictions were overturned. The board of pharmacy reinstated their licenses. The hospital offered them their jobs back, along with a substantial settlement for their wrongful termination.
They declined the jobs—they had no desire to work at Sibley Memorial Hospital ever again—but they accepted the settlement. It was enough to pay off their debts and start over.
Six months after Paul's arrest, Vicky and Shems sat in a coffee shop, drinking lattes and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of their lives.
"I still can't believe it's over," Shems said.
"I know," Vicky agreed. "It feels surreal."
"Do you think we'll ever get our memories back?"
Vicky shook her head. "The neurologists say probably not. Whatever Paul did, it permanently erased that specific knowledge. We'd have to go back to pharmacy school and learn everything again."
"Are you going to?"
"I don't know. Part of me wants to. Part of me never wants to see another IV bag again."
"Same," Shems said.
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.
"Hey," Shems said suddenly. "I just remembered something."
"What?"
"Singulair. That's what we were trying to remember. Singulair is a medication for asthma. We used to dispense it all the time."
Vicky stared at her. "Oh my God. You're right. Singulair. Not 'singular.' Singulair."
They looked at each other and started laughing. After everything they had been through—the memory loss, the job loss, the jail time, the investigation, the trial—they had finally remembered what a singular was.
It was Singulair. A common asthma medication. Nothing mysterious or profound. Just a drug they had dispensed hundreds of times.
"We spent two years obsessing over that," Vicky said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
"Two years," Shems agreed. "And it was just Singulair."
"We're idiots."
"Complete idiots."
They laughed until their sides hurt, until other customers in the coffee shop were staring at them, until the barista asked if they were okay.
"We're fine," Vicky said. "We're better than fine. We're free."
Meanwhile, in federal prison, Paul Norris sat in his cell and contemplated his fall from grace.
She had lost everything. His reputation. His career. His freedom. The hospital that had been named after him. The research center she had built. All of it, gone.
And for what? Because she had been too ambitious. Too willing to do whatever it took to succeed. Too convinced that the ends justified the means.
He thought about Vicky and Shems. He had ruined their lives, and for what? So he could have their jobs? So he could be the star of the oncology department? It seemed so petty now, so small.
He thought about all the other people she had hurt. The colleagues whose memories she had erased. The rivals she had eliminated. The people whose lives she had destroyed in his quest for recognition and success.
She had told himself he was doing important work. That he was saving lives. That his contributions to oncology research justified any collateral damage.
But the truth was simpler and uglier: she had been selfish. She had been cruel. She had been willing to hurt anyone who stood in his way.
And now he would spend the next twenty years paying for it.
Paul lay on his bunk and stared at the ceiling. He was thirty-seven years old. He would be fifty-seven when he got out. His career was over. His reputation was destroyed. He would be remembered not as a brilliant pharmacist, but as a criminal who had experimented on unwitting victims.
She had wanted to be the best. She had wanted to be recognized. She had wanted to be celebrated.
Instead, he was alone in a prison cell, with nothing but his regrets for company.
Vicky and Shems decided not to return to pharmacy. They had been through too much, lost too much. The profession that had once been their passion now held only painful memories.
Instead, they decided to do something completely different.
They wrote a book.
It was a memoir about their experience: the mysterious memory loss, the wrongful conviction, the jail time, the investigation, the discovery of Paul's crimes. They called it "The Pharmacist Who Stole Our Memories."
The book was a bestseller. People were fascinated by their story. They were invited on talk shows, podcasts, news programs. They became advocates for victims of medical experimentation and wrongful conviction.
They used their platform to push for stronger regulations on experimental medical devices. They lobbied for better protections for research subjects. They worked with lawmakers to create new laws preventing the kind of abuse Paul had perpetrated.
And slowly, painfully, they rebuilt their lives.
Vicky went back to school and got a degree in journalism. She became an investigative reporter, specializing in medical ethics and pharmaceutical industry misconduct.
Shems became a patient advocate, working with people who had been harmed by medical professionals. He helped them navigate the legal system, find lawyers, get justice.
They remained close friends, bonded by their shared trauma and their determination to prevent others from experiencing what they had gone through.
And sometimes, late at night, they would sit together and laugh about the singular.
"Remember when we thought it was the key to everything?" Vicky would say.
"Remember when we spent months obsessing over it?" Shems would reply.
"And it was just Singulair."
"Just Singulair."
They would laugh, and the laughter would wash away some of the pain, some of the anger, some of the bitterness.
They had lost years of their lives. They had lost their careers. They had lost their innocence and their trust.
But they had survived. They had fought back. They had won.
And that, in the end, was enough.
Ten years after Paul's arrest, Sibley Memorial Hospital held a ceremony to dedicate a new wing of the oncology center. It was named the Zhu-Alkhatib Center for Patient Safety and Medical Ethics.
Vicky and Shems stood at the podium, looking out at the crowd of doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and administrators.
"Ten years ago," Vicky began, "Shems and I lost everything. We lost our memories, our careers, our freedom. We were victims of a crime that shouldn't have been possible, perpetrated by someone we trusted."
"But we survived," Shems continued. "We fought back. We found the truth. And we've spent the last ten years working to make sure that what happened to us never happens to anyone else."
"This center," Vicky said, gesturing to the building behind them, "represents that commitment. It will be a place where patient safety is paramount. Where medical ethics are not just taught, but practiced. Where the rights and dignity of every patient are protected."
"We can't change the past," Shems said. "We can't get back the years we lost. But we can shape the future. We can create a healthcare system where people like Paul Norris can't hurt innocent victims. Where ambition doesn't justify cruelty. Where success doesn't come at the expense of others."
The crowd applauded. Vicky and Shems stepped down from the podium and cut the ribbon, officially opening the Zhu-Alkhatib Center.
As they walked through the new facility, looking at the state-of-the-art equipment and the dedicated staff, Vicky felt something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope.
They had been through hell. They had lost so much. But they had also gained something: purpose. Meaning. The knowledge that they had taken their suffering and transformed it into something positive.
"You know," Shems said as they stood in the center's main atrium, "I never thought I'd be back here."
"Me neither," Vicky agreed.
"But I'm glad we are. I'm glad we didn't let Paul win. I'm glad we fought back."
"Me too."
They stood there for a moment, two former pharmacists who had lost everything and rebuilt their lives, looking at the center that bore their names.
"Hey Vicky?" Shems said.
"Yeah?"
"Do you ever miss it? Being a pharmacist?"
Vicky thought about it. "Sometimes," she admitted. "I miss the feeling of helping people. I miss the satisfaction of solving a complex drug therapy problem. I miss working with patients."
"But?"
"But I don't miss it enough to go back. We're doing important work now. Different work, but important."
"Yeah," Shems agreed. "We are."
They walked out of the Zhu-Alkhatib Center together, into the bright sunshine of a new day, ready to continue their work, ready to help others, ready to make sure that no one else would ever suffer the way they had suffered.
Behind them, in a federal prison, Paul Norris sat in his cell, serving his sentence, contemplating his mistakes, and wondering if he would ever be forgiven.
He wouldn't be. Some crimes are too great for forgiveness.
But Vicky and Shems had moved beyond forgiveness. They had moved beyond anger and bitterness and the desire for revenge.
They had moved forward.
And that, in the end, was the greatest victory of all.
---
THE END
Word Count: 15,847
*Word Count: 15,847*