PRESTON
Two Weeks Later
Residency is a lot like being in a fraternity, except instead of hazing you with beer bongs, they haze you with sleep deprivation and other people’s bodily fluids.
It is 2:00 PM on a Tuesday. I have been awake for twenty-six hours. I am currently wearing scrubs that have a suspicious stain on the left pant leg, and I am fairly certain my hair has achieved sentience.
I am leaning against the nurses' station, trying to chart a patient’s vitals while simultaneously hallucinating that the IV pole is judging me.
“York,” a nurse barks. “Bed 4 needs a rectal exam. And Bed 9 is demanding a pillow fluffer. You’re up.”
“I am a doctor of medicine,” I mutter, rubbing my eyes. “I am a healer of men. I am nota pillow fluffer.”
“Tell that to the patient,” the nurse says, slapping a clipboard into my chest. “He says his neck is ‘fragile.’ Go.”
I groan. I take the clipboard. I look across the ER.
Luke is there. He is intubating a trauma patient in Bay 1. He looks focused, competent, and infuriatingly awake. He catches my eye through the glass. He winks.
Despite the exhaustion, my chest does a little flip. We have been disgustingly happy for two weeks. I have learned to eat pizza without a fork. I have learned that "sleeping in" means waking up at 6:00 AM. I am evolving.
But I am also tired. Soul-deep, bone-grindingly tired.
“Dr. York.”
I freeze. The voice comes from behind me. It is cool, baritone, and terrifyingly crisp.
I turn around.
Maxwell is standing there. He is wearing his pristine white coat. He looks like he just stepped out of a cryogenic freezer—perfectly preserved and unbothered by the concept of fatigue.
“Max,” I say. “If you’re here to tell me my tie is crooked, I’m wearing scrubs.”
“Your drawstring is uneven,” Max notes automatically. “Come with me. We’re needed upstairs.”
“I have a rectal exam in Bed 4.”
“Delegate it,” Max says, turning on his heel. “To an intern. The Board is waiting.”
He walks away. He doesn't wait to see if I follow. He knows I will. It is the gravitational pull of the older brother.
I hand the clipboard to a terrified first-year medical student.
“Go forth,” I tell him. “Bed 4. It builds character.”
I follow Max.
We leave the chaotic noise of the ER. We take the elevator up. The air changes. It stops smelling like antiseptic and starts smelling like lemon polish and money.
We walk into Max’s office—the Fishbowl.
Max opens the door.
“He’s here,” Max announces.
Sitting in Max’s guest chair, feet propped up on the mahogany desk, holding a tumbler of amber liquid, is Alistair York.
“Preston!” Alistair booms, swinging his legs off the desk. “My boy! My prodigal son! You look terrible. Is that blood on your pants? Or is it sauce? Please tell me it’s sauce.”
