Chapter 6 #2
For a second, Shane studied me. Then his expression melted into something softer, the teasing edge almost entirely gone. “You know you’re allowed to like someone, right? Even residents. The timing sucks, and the power dynamics suck even harder. But feelings happen.”
Warmth crept into my face. “I know. And liking isn’t the problem. Acting on it, though? It would hit both our careers. So, no.”
“Then you admire him from a professional distance,” Shane said.
“Write poetry about his knot boards or whatever. That’s what your little notebook is for, right?
” He nudged my shoulder. “Just don’t artificially freeze him out, okay?
It’s rare that someone catches your eye like this, so he must be something special.
Don’t fake indifference so hard you break something—you, him, whatever it is that could grow there. ”
I huffed. “Answer is: nothing much. Not until—oh, I don’t know. He’s finished his training, I guess. Seven years, give or take.”
“Hey, aim high.”
“Wow, is that how you pep-talk your third-graders?”
“I’ve got mad skills,” Shane said with a proud nod, his mouth twisting into something halfway between amusement and affection. “Just think about it, all right?”
“Sure.” I would. When hell froze over.
Shane, bless him, let it go after a warm, assessing glance.
When he waved to Maeve for another round, I exhaled and ordered a seltzer this time.
We toasted to poor timing and professional ethics before we parked hospital drama for a hamster jailbreak and glue sticks in hair.
I laughed enough to loosen the tangled weight in my chest.
We called it a night around half past nine, the speakers belting classic eighties as Shane clapped my shoulder. “Deep breaths tomorrow, okay? Fair scores, definitely no poetry in the comment section. And if he crushes it—hey, seems you’ve got an eye for talent. Mouth, hands, same difference.”
“You’re not helping,” I told Shane.
He grinned. “I really am.”
Maybe.
Outside, fresh evening air welcomed us. We hugged, then I watched him turn toward the subway before I headed uptown, something like anticipation humming in my veins.
Deep breaths, fair scores. I could do that.
Probably.
Garcia had struck again. Like—seriously? Because when I arrived at the lecture bay, he’d put up a large poster that announced this to be the Suture Bowl Finals. Red tape declared the front row taboo for anyone but us judges. Okay then. Stage set.
Interns started filing in, most of them a few minutes early, expressions tight and energy humming somewhere between excitement and end of the world.
I focused on my tepid coffee and the columns on my clipboard that split feedback into clarity, depth, and poise.
Right, okay. I could do this—be objective, give everyone a fair chance. They were all the same to me.
Once more, with feeling.
At seven sharp, Garcia strode to the mic.
“Morning, scrubs. Here’s how this goes: We’re about to announce the top five.
They’ll each receive the same neonatal emergency scenario, staggered fifteen minutes apart, and get an hour to prepare.
No phones, no computers, just straight-up brain power. Life’s unfair; so is medicine.”
He was slightly amusing, I’d give him that. Behind me, low-voltage chatter buzzed like a distant swarm of insects. I didn’t let myself turn around, refused to seek out anyone in particular.
“Questions?” Garcia asked, not bothering to hide his glee. “No? Then let’s roll.”
The first three names were announced one by one.
Nervous clapping followed each. #5—Tessa Edwards, pink hair—got the loudest cheer, likely because she’d made fast friends with half the intern class.
She patted the lanky guy from yesterday on the shoulder, high-fived Finn, and joined #3 and #22 at the front while Finn sat back, a steep crinkle between his eyebrows.
I kept my arms crossed, shoulders loose, and looked away just as I sensed he might be about to glance at me. Deep breaths, fair scores.
#19—Cam Nguyen.
“Last but also first after Round One…” Garcia drew it out like a TV host fishing for dramatic effect and a memorable catchphrase. “We’ve got number 12. Finn Hayes—come on up.”
A beat passed before Finn stood, his smile as brilliant as it had been that night in the bar.
Which I really wasn’t meant to remember, especially right now.
I sipped coffee and fixed my face into something flat and unreadable while Finn walked up, some residents clapping for him, others groaning their disappointment.
His gaze flicked toward the judges’ row just long enough to catch mine for a fraction, then skitter off again.
Neutral.
The finalists were herded outside while the remaining residents received the same case the finalists would be handed one by one. I didn’t watch them go. Why would I?
“If you’re sitting there pouting,” Garcia told the room, “here’s a tip: The only thing worse than losing is being remembered for being salty about it.
So shake it off, because the same case they’re sweating over?
Is now your learning moment. No talking, no phones, you got the same sixty minutes.
We’ll collect your notes before the first presentation. ”
Ah, yes. Welcome to medicine—where every loss means homework.
While interns scrambled for pen and paper, I reviewed the rubric Garcia had suggested in more detail: clarity of thought, diagnostic reasoning, treatment plan, poise under pressure. Equal weighting.
Jesus Christ, I needed another coffee.
An hour later, #22 started us off, nerves obvious.
The case? A premature infant, born at thirty-four weeks, with signs of feeding intolerance, abdominal tenderness, and sepsis labs.
NEC—necrotizing enterocolitis. God, I’d scrubbed in on one earlier this week, the bowel so inflamed it shredded under the clamps.
Diagnosis was the easy part. The decisions that came after? Less so. You had to resect enough to save the kid while leaving enough to avoid short gut. A brutal balancing act, with terrified parents pacing outside.
Every intern in the room had the same case still printed out in front of them, their notes already collected. The finalists, well—they had the added bonus of performing under a spotlight, the rest of their class as a live audience. No pressure.
#22 was solid, thoughtful, but stumbled slightly during his explanation of when to take the patient to the OR—he hesitated, then backtracked, which made it clear he wasn’t sure where the non-operative window ended and the surgical urgency began. Points docked.
#3 impressed: polished thoughts, calm cadence, and good eye contact. She also handled our questions confidently. Full score. A quick sideways glance showed she got the same from all the others. She’d been just four points behind Finn in yesterday’s ranking—fuck, he’d need to do well. If…
Jesus. I wanted him to win, didn’t I? Despite it all.
Neutral.
Next up—Edwards. She strode in with pink streaks flying and opened with a confident “Good morning. Our patient is a ten-day-old preemie, who presents with abdominal distension, bilious vomiting, and feeding intolerance.” Excellent, to-the-point overview.
“Febrile,” she continued, “tachycardic, slightly hypotensive.”
Damn, she was good. Smooth delivery, no hesitation, yet not so fast that she tripped over her own words.
Presentation done, we moved into the same questions we’d asked the other two, starting with Garcia.
“You diagnosed this as a case of necrotizing enterocolitis,” he said.
“Correct. Can you list the primary risk factors?”
And Edwards just… froze. Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. Someone in the audience coughed, and she recovered like it was a signal, but the damage was done. Her answers came hesitantly after that, confidence cracked.