As we moved toward the lap boxes, I caught another glimpse of Jesse accepting a clipboard from Garcia, expression unreadable, half-facing away from the room. God. On Thursday, my work had to speak for itself. And on Friday, if I stood in front of him with a case presentation, I needed to shine so brightly it blotted out our past, made it easy for him to judge me on science and clear communication. And if I did too well—if I actuallywon—then congrats, me: three months of daily face time with my favorite ethical minefield, coming right up.
Yeah. No pressure at all.
Tessa’s apartment came with a disco ball dangling from a ceiling hook. It threw bright spots on the walls as we spent three hours stitching up foam cubes, demolishing Chinese takeout, and then speed-running presentation drills.
My turn to present. I’d never been a comfortable public speaker, even if my audience consisted of Tessa nursing a craft beer while Khai mainlined tiny pretzels. “Okay,” I started. “So the likely diagnosis is tracheomalacia—floppy airway cartilage—which can worsen during infections or agitation. We’d start?—”
“Whoa,” Tessa interrupted. “Hey. Lead with the age and reason for admission, don’t just jump to your conclusions. You’ll lose them immediately.”
“Also,” Khai said, “might wanna slow it down a little. The way you’re talking, it’s like…” He paused for a grin. “Like the patient’s a ticking bomb and you’re rushing to cut the wire—any wire.”
It tugged a small chuckle out of me. “Love the imagery.”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he said, and Tessa laughed.
“Clearly.” She nodded at me. “Now, try again?”
Right, cool. Except I stopped for a second to look at them—Tessa about to take a sip of beer, Khai with pretzels in his lap like we were at the movies, disco-ball speckles dancing over them. In theory, we were competitors. But I’d given them some pointers on their handiwork earlier, little things that might make a difference in the judging, and now they were genuinely trying to make me better.
“Hey,” I said, almost shy all of a sudden. “Thank you both. I’m really glad we bumped into each other. Makes this whole thing feel less like…”
“Gladiator-arena vibes?” Khai suggested, grin softening.
“Shared trauma leads to speedier recovery,” Tessa said. “There are totally studies on that.”
We all laughed—quick and breathy, more about the pressure than humor. I reset my shoulders.
“Okay. Again.” I paused. “Two-year-old male, admitted for increasingly labored breathing and persistent stridor. He comes with a history of frequent respiratory infections, and his condition’s been worsening over the past twenty-four hours.”Ease up on the speed.“On exam: The skin just above the breastbone pulls inward during inhalations, wheeze, low-grade fever…”
The words came out much more smoothly, like they had space to breathe. Like I did, too.
We wrapped up some forty minutes later with high fives all around, then I headed home with a faint hum of hope underneath the exhaustion—strange given that out of the three of us, I had the best hands but the worst presenting skills. If I placed in the top five with one of them? I was screwed.
And yet.
I returned to my place some fourteen hours after I’d left and found Neil in the living room, a Netflix documentary droning on in the background as he assembled a floor lamp with the help of a tall brunette. Friend? Girlfriend? Samantha, as it turned out, my second roommate.
“Sam,” she corrected, pushing hair off her face with one hand while holding the lamp base steady with the other. “Corporate law. Please don’t ask how I like it.”
“Noted.” I grinned at her. “Finn, surgery resident. Ask me how I like it when they’re not pitting us against each other like it’s the Hunger Games.”
“Do tell,” Neil said, glancing up from where he tightened a screw, eyes bright.
I decided they had the lamp assembly well under control and plopped onto the couch, tipping my head back with a sigh. “Boot camp announced a ‘Suture Bowl’—winner assists on a conjoined-twin separation.”
Sam whistled. “High stakes. Weapon of choice?”
“Needle and silk thread.”
“Thrilling,” she said. “I’d watch it.”
“Only if there’s a romance subplot,” Neil chimed in.
I hesitated. While Jesse and I had agreed on silence, we’d failed to define its boundaries—hospital bubble only, or did it extend beyond? Tessa and Khai were a no go, of course, but what about friends back home? What about Neil and Sam, unconnected to Devon Memorial? I wasn’t wired to stew in myown thoughts without some kind of outside input. The secret sat in my throat like a fishbone, daring me to spit it out.
I must have paused a beat too long because Sam arched a sharply defined eyebrow. “Oooh.” She turned the word into its own sentence. “I think there is a story there.”
“‘Story’ is too strong a word,” I said carefully. “More like a false start. A red herring.”
