“Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “I still don’t get what you’re talking about.”
I chugged a protein shake instead of verbally wringing my best friend’s neck. “The wedding photographer,” I started, “took a lot of photos. Right?”
“I’m with you so far.”
“But not all of those photos made it into the album. Right? They took more photos than just the ones in the online gallery.”
“I think so? I don’t really know how it all works. I could ask Flor, if you want. I bet she’d know.”
I went back to the shake instead of sighing because we’d had this conversation approximately fifty-seven times. Then I caught sight of the time on the microwave and groaned out loud. I wasso fucking latethat I could already feel the chief resident’s rubber clog up my ass.
This was the downside of having a ten-minute commute on foot, seven if I sprinted like a bear was chasing me down Charles Street. It seduced me into believing my entire day wouldn’t suffer because I stole a few extra minutes of sleep or stood still while eating.
“I love you, man, but you said you’d stop dying every time my wife’s name comes up in conversation.”
“I’m late, that’s all,” I said, scrambling to get myself into shoes while grabbing my fleece zip-up and messenger bag. “It’s not Florrie.”
Even if that woman was going to destroy my best friend’s life.
“How can you be late? It’s almost five in the morning out there.”
“The same way it’s the middle of the night out there and you’re driving home from an expedition now.” I jogged down two flights of stairs and out into the periwinkle light of morning, the phone trapped between my shoulder and chin. “About those photos?—”
“Why do you want them? What’s the deal with you and the wedding photos?”
I’d dodged this question all summer. We all knew I couldn’t feign any desire to memorialize the event, and I knew I couldn’t tell Mason the truth. Especially since I’d reached the point where I was more than a little convinced that I’d dreamed the whole thing into existence and there was a very good chance I’d experience a quick mental breakdown if I didn’t make some tangible progress soon.
“Is this about that woman you talked to?” he asked. “What was her name again?”
An ambulance screeched past me, lights and sirens slicing through the predawn stillness. I crossed the street and headed for the side entrance of the ER. “Sorry. I gotta go. We’ll pick this up after your expedition later this week. Take care, man. Be safe on the mountain.”
We parted with a promise to reconnect over the weekend which wasn’t a promise I had any business making since I didn’t know what to expect from this new rotation. If the cohort ahead of mine could be trusted, we were in for eight nonstop weeks.
I hit the stairwell and sprinted up five flights to the resident team room. The chances were slim to none that the fifth-year resident supervising my cohort during this rotation would also be running late this morning, but foolish optimism was at least half of my personality. The rest was sandwiches and the variety of stubbornness that thrived on proving people wrong.
As I burst into the room, winded, sweating, and dangerously close to tasting that protein shake again, I heard, “Dr. Hazlette, I presume? You’re late.”
“Yes,” I wheezed, holding out my hand to the tall Black woman with a glare that could grind bone. “My apologies. Won’t happen again.”
“Unless you want to spend the next two months parked in the clinic, I should hope not.” She shook my hand and then motioned for me to join the other three members of my cohort. “In the future, I expect to find the entire team present and prepared at five on the dot for pre-rounds. Anyone who elects to be even a minute late will not see the inside of an OR that day. Understood?”
Cami Cortes-Dixon nodded vigorously. “Yes, Dr. Copeland. Of course.” She adjusted her headband and then smoothed a hand over the lapels of her white coat. Not a wrinkle to be found. My white coat, on the other hand, was probably balled up in my bag. “We are very excited for this rotation and we’re going to do whatever it takes to meet your expectations.”
Cami was ourpleasure to have in class. She was wound tighter than a spring-loaded bear trap.
Dr. Copeland grimaced like she was trying to identify the source of a foul smell. Then, “You’re very…exuberant. I’m going to need you to channel that into something more productive than kissing my ass.”
“Oh, yes, well, I am fluent in three languages: Spanish, Portuguese, and Cantonese. I picked up enough Haitian Creole during a semester-long clinical internship to communicate with patients and?—”
I cleared my throat. “CCD. You’re good.”
Beside me, Tori Tran ran a hand down her face, doing nothing to hide her laugh. On my other side, Reza Ansari pressed a finger to the bridge of his glasses. He wasn’t one forbig reactions. Or small reactions. Any reactions, really. Over the past three months, I’d checked his pulse a few times to confirm that he was alive and not an exceptionally realistic robot.
Funny thing though, he and Tori were deep into a complex bow tie pact that I still didn’t understand. They both wore bow ties every day. The same bow ties. Different shirts and trousers, but…matching bow ties.
Dr. Copeland spared Tori an impatient glance before frowning down at her tablet. “Hazlette’s time management issues have put us behind. We’ll walk and talk,” she said, elbowing open the door and stepping into the hall. “Pre-rounds in the transplant unit is going to look a little different than what you saw on your last rotation in general surgery.”
“Get your shit together,” Cami hissed with a jab to my arm. From the feel of it, her wedding rings were going to leave a mark. “You can’t be late on the first day! Do you want the resident to hate us? What’s wrong with you?”
