“Ain’t that the truth,” he said with a note of grave regret. “Now, anyway. Let me show you the room, get you settled before I need to run.”
“Thank you.”
My suitcase and I trailed him along the hall—first door on the left, a basic room that looked even smaller than in the pictures. One IKEA bed frame, a yard-sale wardrobe, a cheap desk, and a lone chair, walls bare except for a single nail that must have held a picture frame. The evening sun cut between two other buildings and splashed orange across the floor.
“Sorry about the, uh…” Neil glanced around. “Spartan vibe. The last guy moved to Texas and took anything that had character.”
I left my suitcase by the door and walked into what would hopefully come to feel like home. “There’s a slice of sky and no mold on the wall. From what I hear, that’s worth a lot around here.”
“Realistic goals,” Neil said. “I appreciate that in a person.”
Realistic goals? How about: survive boot camp week and then the next seven years, make attending, eventually move back to a smaller town and work at a hospital there.
“Might as well marry your ambitions, Finn.”
Travis hadn’t understood. Maybe he couldn’t have, maybe it was unfair that I’d expected him to. But now I was competing with others who absolutely got it—they wouldn’t have placed with Devon Memorial Hospital otherwise. Not something I desperately wanted to unpack with Neil just yet, though.
“Well, hey,” I said. “If you aim low enough, you’re never disappointed.”
He shot me a quick, clever look from where he lounged in the doorway. “Somehow, I doubt that’s your life motto.” Ah, not to be underestimated, was he? “But anyway,” he continued, “need a hand with anything?”
“I’ve got it, thanks. Gonna unpack, then head out to buy some sheets and stuff. Just wanted to see the place first and get the key.”
He grinned, pushed off the frame. “Solid plan. I’m here till six if you need help or a crash course in surviving New York on a budget.”
“Might take you up on that.”
Left alone, I sat down on the mattress and simply breathed for a minute, hands on my thighs like I’d learned from a guided meditation app. So. I’d arrived. The apartment sounded different from the hotel’s anonymity—the murmur of a neighbor’s voice through the drywall, traffic a hint more distant, Neil clattering around the kitchen. Just reality spinning on as I tried to catch up.
Tomorrow: surgery boot camp, training ground with a potential for failure. Tonight: a half-empty room, a suitcase mostly filled with clothes, and the odd thought that somewherein this city, a man might still be waiting for payment instructions.
Life, huh?
Surgery boot camp.
All right, this was where the good stuff started—OR protocol, double-speed knot-tying, line placement on mannequins. I’d slept a whole seven hours last night, learned that Neil made excellent coffee, and found the skills center on the first try. I was ready. Bring it fuckingon.
The lobby held about twenty of us—navy scrubs and excited faces, white coats clutched like emotional support blankets. I joined Khai and a girl named Tessa, who told me she’d dyed her hair from red to pink last night. “It’s my let’s-get-down-to-business color,” she said, and Khai looked at her like it was the most profound thing he’d heard all year. I stifled a grin. Seemed not everyone in this program had resolved to postpone romance for, oh, the next decade or so.
We swapped first impressions of New York—loud and fast, turn a corner and it’s like a different world. Khai had accidentally joined a protest for something he couldn’t figure out, and I told them about navigating a warehouse-looking place in Harlem for sheets that didn’t fall apart in the first wash and then buying lamb gyro from a street vendor that tasted incredible but had the consistency of wet cardboard. “Might’ve been lamb, might’ve been something else. I’ll never know.”
“The right not to know.” Tessa nodded. “Doesn’t only apply to patients.”
Right on time, a chief resident called us to order with an air of military precision. “Listen up, everyone, because I’m not gonna say this twice. So—boot camp.” He let the words hang for a heavy beat. “It’s not about memorizing acronyms or flatteringyour supervisors. We want steady hands, sound judgment, and an ability to react on the fly. Show us you’re an asset, not a liability.” Another pause while no one dared to twitch so much as a muscle. “End of the week,” he continued, “we run a little competition—a chance to assist in a once-in-a-career case. For now, senior residents and supervising fellows are inside to run and score each workstation. Try not to bleed on the simulators.”
A…joke. The bleeding thing, that was. Probably? A few uncertain chuckles; mine was one of them.
“A competition?” Khai murmured once people started lining up for schedules. “Any idea what that’s about?”
“Nope,” I said while Tessa shook her head.
“Don’t think it’s a standard thing. I talked to some of the older residents yesterday, none of them mentioned anything.”
Suddenly quiet, we shuffled into line for our info packages, and I told myself it was okay to want the damn spot, whatever it was. Normal, even. I wanted friends, yeah—but wanting to be liked didn’t mean I had to lose. This place rewarded focus, not charm.
I accepted my manila folder and followed the others toward the double doors.
Inside, the skills center had been split into sections and workstations. Each had its own setup—one with foam arms for IVs, others with dome-shaped laparoscopic trainers or rubbery strips for suturing. Residents oversaw them, fellows drifting between to correct and assess.
