I dug through my bag, handing her my notebook, stethoscope, and the laminated cheat sheets she’d distributed during last weekend’s prep session. “Didn’t sleep well,” I muttered. There was no point in mentioning that I hadn’t slept well in months. That I wasn’t sure I’d ever sleep well again.
“Sleeping is not part of the curriculum here,” she snapped. “Come on! We’re missing everything!”
We caught up to the others while I pulled myself together. Since the start of residency in July—and trauma-bonding our way through a hellish rotation in burn surgery—our cohort had turned into a peculiar little family. There was no way around it when you spent sixteen hours a day together for three months straight.
“Transplant surgery is among the most interdisciplinary programs you’ll encounter. You will work with more providers on this rotation than any other in the entirety of your training,”Copeland continued. “It’s also one of the most unpredictable programs. There will be days that start out with an empty surgical schedule and end with every OR in use. That’s simply the nature of a specialty dependent upon donated organs. Prepare yourself for ambiguity now.”
“That means less sleep,” Cami whispered.
“I got the subtext, thanks.”
I went back to shuffling my notes and cheat sheets as Copeland went over her expectations for pre-round preparations. Compared to the actual drill sergeant we’d had down in the burn unit and then the power-tripping prick in general surgery, Copeland was like a field of daisies. The type of daisies that gave off atake no shitvibe and glared laser beams, of course.
“Dr. Aldritch is the attending surgeon for this rotation,” Copeland went on. “However, you’ll often be assigned to work with other attendings in this practice to gain exposure to as many transplant procedures as possible”—she narrowed her gaze on me—“assuming you’re on time.”
“Never living that one down,” Tori said under her breath.
“Engrave it on my tombstone now,” I replied.
For the next hour, Copeland led us through the hallways, talking as fast as she walked and tossing out orders we had limited hope of understanding on the first try.
Once we’d stopped by the rooms of all the transplant patients, she wagged a pen at us, saying, “I need to grab Dr. Aldritch for a few minutes before the start of rounds.” She swept a gaze over the group. “Use this time to get yourselves ready. We will move through cases very quickly and you will be asked questions that you should be able to answer. Dr. Aldritch is looking for you to be prepared and competent.”
The second Copeland walked away, we circled up to rapid-fire through every question we could imagine coming our wayabout these patients and their surgeries. This was where Reza shined. He had a way of knowing that we’d be asked to discuss the signs of some rare reaction or a triad of symptoms required for a certain diagnosis versus a pentad of symptoms for another. That computer brain of his was amazing.
As I was jotting down some notes, I caught a low burst of laughter from somewhere down the hall. It landed in my stomach, a sudden, fizzy wave of heat that commanded me to find the source of that sound.
Even as my head jerked up, I knew there was no point. That sound was an echo of a memory, one I barely trusted to be real anymore.
I scanned the corridor and was immediately disappointed with myself for wasting this time when the only people around were a few techs buzzing in and out of rooms and Dr. Copeland down near the nurses’ station. She was talking to someone, but that end of the hall bent to the right, obscuring the other side of that conversation from view.
Not that it mattered. That sound lived in my head and perhaps only there. I shook off the fog of those memories and went back to my notes as my team bounced through various signs of organ rejection.
And then I heard it again.
More than hearing it, Ifeltit.
My heart rate stuttered as that sound slipped up my spine and warmed the back of my neck. I blinked at my notebook, willing myself to write down the words swirling around my head.
I dared a glance up and my entire world turned upside down.
No more than twenty feet away stood the woman I’d nearly convinced myself was a dream. The one who’d disappeared without a trace. The one with the hazel eyes that saw through everything and golden brown hair that almost brushed hershoulders. The one with the secretive smile and the laugh I’d know anywhere. The one I fit inside of like I’d been made for her.
There you are.
Then she started walking in this direction and all at once I registered her white coat, the badge readingSURGEON, and that she was speaking with Copeland. My head filled with static.
“Fuck” croaked out of me and I dropped everything. Notebook, pen, cheat sheets. Even my stethoscope clattered to the floor.“Fuck.”
“I specifically told you to get your shit together,” Cami added.
“Did you fall out of bed and hit your head or something, Hazlette?” Tori whispered.
As I knelt on the floor, suffocatingly aware that the space between us was narrowing with each sharp click of her heels, all I could manage was a roughly panted “Fuck.”
Reza crouched down, gathering the laminated cards and shuffling them into an order he found acceptable while I shoved the stethoscope into my pocket. He didn’t say anything as he handed them over, though the slight quirk in his brow seemed to askIs everything all right?
How could I begin to answer that? After a long slide into near insanity, I’d finally found Whitney, the woman who hadn’t been on the guest list or in a single one of the hundreds of wedding photos—and she was my new boss.
