"Why?" he asks. "Why did you do it? You don't even know her."
I look at him. I could tell him the truth—that I did it because seeing him stressed made my chest hurt. That I did it because I wanted to see if I could.
"She gave me a candy," I say simply. "It was strawberry."
Lucas shakes his head. A small, reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"You’re ridiculous."
"I’m expensive," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Jean-Pierre called," Lucas says.
"Who?"
"The chef. For the Platinum Wing. He wanted to know if the patient had any dietary restrictions for her...checks notes... lobster bisque."
I laugh. "Standard procedure."
Lucas looks at me. His dark eyes search mine. For the first time since I arrived, he isn't looking at the shoes. He isn't looking at the hair. He’s looking at me.
"Good work, York," he says softly. "The scan confirmed it. We caught it early."
He pauses, then adds, sounding almost grudging, "I didn't think you would stick your neck out like that. Most guys in your shoes wouldn't have risked it."
It is a crumb. A tiny, microscopic crumb of validation.
I want to frame it.
"Does this mean I don't have to do disimpactions tomorrow?" I ask hopefully.
The moment breaks. Lucas rolls his eyes, pushing off the doorframe.
"Dream on, Princess. I have a guycoming in at 8 AM who sat on a garden gnome. You’re up. But, you can call me Luke now. You’ve earned that at least.”
He walks away down the hall.
I watch him go.
I take the strawberry candy wrapper out of my pocket and flick it into the trash.
Worth it.
Chapter 4
The Curation of Chaos
PRESTON
Day Five
There are things they do not teach you in medical school. They teach you the Krebs cycle. They teach you the anatomy of the brachial plexus.
They donotteach you that drawing blood from a human being requires the dexterity of a bomb disposal expert and the emotional stability of a saint.
I have neither.
I am standing in Cubicle 3, holding a butterfly needle. The patient, Mr. Higgs, has veins that are apparently made of gossamer and shy away from light.
