There is the lighting, which is fluorescent and unflattering to anyone over the age of twelve. There is the smell, which oscillates between "bleach" and "regret." And then there is the coffee.
The coffee at St. Jude’s is a hate crime. It is sludge. It is battery acid pretending to be a beverage.
Which is why, at 7:00 AM on my third day of residency, I am not rounding on patients. I am currently overseeing the installation of a La Marzocco Linea Mini espresso machine in the interns' break room.
"Careful with the chrome," I instruct the delivery guys. "If you scratch it, I’ll have to sue you, and my lawyers are very bored right now."
"Dr. York?"
I turn around. A girl—Foster, I think—is standing in the doorway. She looks like she has slept inside a dryer. Her scrub top is buttoned wrong.
"Good morning, Foster," I say, signing the delivery receipt with my Montblanc pen. "You look... present."
"Is that..." She stares at the gleaming Italian machinery sitting on the wobbly break room table. "Is that an espresso machine?"
"It is," I confirm. "I tried the cafeteria brew yesterday. I saw God, Foster. And he was angry."
"We aren't allowed to have personal appliances," she whispers, looking terrified. "Dr. Silva will confiscate it. He confiscated Levine’s toaster oven yesterday."
"Levine was heating up fish," I say, dismissing her concern. "This is a humanitarian aid package. Now, do you want a macchiato or are you going to report me?"
Foster looks at the machine. She looks at the door. "Double shot," she whispers. "Please."
I am just tamping the grounds—a custom blend I have flown in from a roaster in Portland—when the atmosphere in the room changes. The temperature drops ten degrees.
I don't need to turn around to know who it is.
"York."
The voice is deep, raspy, and sounds like it has been gargling gravel and judgment.
I turn slowly.
Dr. Lucas Silva is leaning against the doorframe. He looks terrible. And by terrible, I mean he looks like a tragic, beautiful disaster. His curls are a mess, there are dark circles under his eyes that could bruise a peach, and he is holding a stack of files like he wants to set them on fire.
"Chief," I say, leaning against the counter. "Coffee? It’s on the house."
He stares at the machine. He stares at me.
"You brought an espresso machine," he says flatly. "To a hospital."
"I brought morale," I correct. "And caffeine. Which, technically, makes me the most valuable person on this floor."
"Get rid of it."
"No."
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
"I said no," I say, pushing a tiny porcelain cup toward Foster, who grabs it and scampers away like a startled squirrel. "You can write me up. You can yell at me. You can make me manually disimpact the entire Knicks roster. But I am not drinking the sludge downstairs, and neither are you."
I start pulling another shot. The rich, caramel scent fills the sterile room. I see Silva’s nostrils flare. I see the weakness in his eyes. He is a man on the edge, and I am the devil with a steam wand.
"I take it black," he mutters, defeated.
I smirk. "Coming right up."
I hand him the cup. He takes a sip. His eyes close. For a second, the tension in his shoulders drops. He looks almost... human.
