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“Oh my God.” She gushes. “I’m so sorry about today. I’m dropping the course. I can’t be pre-med if I faint at my own finger.”

“Your blood pressure dropped,” I say. “That’s all a faint is. Seeing blood trips a reflex. Your vessels open, your pressure falls, your brain shuts off for a few seconds until you’re flat and the blood can get back to your head. It’s a reflex. It’s not a sign of anything.”

She just looks at me, dumbfounded, and shakes her head. “No, other people didn’t faint. My dad said I wasn’t up to being a doctor; he was right.”

“He is not right,” I say. “Next time you feel it coming, you know, warm, floaty, sounds going far away? Tense each of your muscles. Legs, glutes, fists. Squeeze hard, like you’re angry. Hold for ten seconds. Let go. Do it again. It pushes your blood pressure back up before the reflex can finish. It’s called applied tension.”

“Does it really work?” Her eyes are wide.

“Surgeons faint in their first year. Lots of them.” I stand up. “Also eat breakfast on lab days. Salt, water. And sit down the second it starts.”

She’s quiet for a second. “Okay.”

“Oh, and here, you forgot this.” I reach into my bag and hand her the pencil case. Her face brightens.

“Oh! Thank you so much. My mom got me this.” She beams at me.

“We re-run the practical Thursday,” I say. “Eleven o’clock. Come early. Eat first. And squeeze.”

“Will you be there?”

I hesitate. Thursday at eleven is when I’ve got scheduled to practice MCAT questions. But…she looks so hopeful.

“I’ll be there,” I say.

“Okay.” She puts the pencil case in her bag. “You’re kind of scary in lab. Why are you being nice to me?”

“She’s all bark, no bite. A real softie on the inside,” chirps Gianna.

I glare at her.

I check my phone quickly, realizing I don’t know the time.

“I have to go,” I say. “Lecture. Bye, Lucie. See you Thursday! Bye, Gi!”

“Have fun!” Gianna calls.

“Write down that we need to borrow a good speaker, maybe from a frat?” I call as I turn back.

She writes it down.

Outside the window, the afternoon is gray, and I have a tutoring session in twenty minutes that I’ve told absolutely nobody about.

Chapter Ten

Cal

I’m four minutes early.

Bea is sitting at the front bench with her laptop open and a glass container balanced beside it. She’s winding a fork through a tangle of dark noodles, surrounded by edamame and half a soft-boiled egg.

She glances at the clock, and her eyes widen.

“You’re early.”

“Am I?” I drop into the seat opposite her. “Must be your positive influence.”

“I doubt that.”