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Me: It is slut-shaming the humerus.

There’s a pause. Longer than the others.

Then: Don’t write that either.

I snort. Not cute. Not delicate. A real snort. If Evan were here, my crush would have left the building in a lab coat.

Probably for the best.

Me: Fine. Median nerve.

Evan: C5-T1. Most forearm flexors. Thenar muscles. Lateral two lumbricals. Sensation lateral palm and lateral three and a half digits. Carpal tunnel. Ape hand.

I press my lips together.

I’m really enjoying this.

It’s not just the help, though the help is saving me from walking into Singh’s test and offering him interpretive dance as a nerve map. Which is dangerous, because easy things are how I get tricked. Free trials. “Just one episode.” The first time Nate said, “Don’t freak out, but the bill came.”

I push that thought away too. My brain is getting crowded.

Me: Ulnar. Give me the version that will keep Singh from smelling fear.

The typing dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Then: Who’s Singh?

I stare at the screen.

Then I blink.

Once. Twice.

My pen pauses over the notebook.

Me: Very funny.

No reply.

I sit back slowly.

The radiator clanks in the corner, which feels judgmental, but the radiator once made a noise like a goose dying in a pipe, so it has no moral authority here.

Me: Did you just pretend to forget Dr. Singh?

Me: The man who once said “adequate” with so much disappointment that I considered changing careers?

The reply comes after a beat.

Evan: I don’t know Dr. Singh.

I smile, because fine, apparently Evan Cole has a dry side.

A weirdly committed dry side.