Chapter 6 #3
Three out of five points, similar scores from the others. She’d already lost. She knew it, too, based on the dejected curve of her mouth as she made her exit. Too bad, really—I liked her.
Just two more.
#19. Cam Nguyen. His ideas were solid but the voice a shade too soft, like he didn’t trust his own assessment. Four threes including mine, one four. So… #3 was the person to beat, and Finn needed twenty-two points to do it—at least two fives if the rest were all fours.
The timer reset. I reached for my coffee, realized it was empty, and rubbed a thumb along the rim of the cup.
Okay. Finn.
He walked up to the podium, temples slightly damp as if he’d splashed water on his face.
After three days of carefully averted eyes, it was strange to look my fill—striking angles, lashes too long, tension pulling at his mouth.
He looked like someone who gave a damn. Pen in one hand, he tapped it once against the notes in front of him before laying it flat on the podium.
A breath. A quick glance up at us judges.
“So—uh. Good morning.” His voice came out a little too fast, and he paused for another breath, then smiled.
“Our patient is a thirty-four-week premature male, day-of-life ten, previously healthy. He presents with one day of fever, poor feeding, increased sleepiness. On exam: a distended, tender abdomen with decreased bowel sounds.”
Easier now, his posture shifting as though he’d stepped onto firmer ground. When his eyes found me, I gave him a fraction of a nod, so minuscule it couldn’t possibly register.
Jesus Christ. Complicated or not, I really wanted this for him.
He sailed into smoother water from there—risk factors, immediate labs, and abdominal imaging, plus clear surgical triggers.
When he mentioned his pediatric med school rotation “in a rural hospital in the Berkshires,” a faint vowel twang surfaced, just enough to ping my own middle-of-nowhere-Missouri ear.
Another country boy hiding in the big city. Huh.
When it came time for questions, he didn’t rush his answers, clarifying aspects and acknowledging nuances, nailed the risk factors that had tripped up his friend Edwards. Not flawless, but well beyond solid.
“He must be something special.”
I blinked away Shane’s words to ask the same question I’d asked the other four. “Dr. Hayes. How would you explain the surgery and its risks to the parents?”
Finn met my eyes—not defiant, just thoughtful, taking a moment to respond as if letting the question settle between us.
“I’d sit with them rather than stand. That’s important.
” He rested his hands on the podium. “And then I’d tell them we think their baby’s bowel is dying, and that sometimes, surgery is the only way to give them a chance to live.
It’s not without risk—babies this small can die even with everything we do—but without surgery, the odds are worse.
I’d make sure they know that. And that they’re part of every decision. ”
I could see it, was the thing. Not quite yet maybe, but in a couple of years, when he’d have the experience and gravitas to carry a heavy conversation like this.
He’d be fucking amazing.
“Fear doesn’t mean they’re irrational,” he added after a beat, quieter. “It just means they love their kid. They deserve some space to be scared, and someone who’ll stay steady when they can’t.”
Oh God, I liked him. Yeah, I barely knew him—but I’d seen his quick, clever mind and the way he dropped to his knees for me, the tinge of vulnerability when he’d mentioned his ex’s bullshit comment, how he’d tried to build up a friend.
No poetry in the comment section.
“Thank you,” I said. “No further questions, Dr. Hayes.”
“Thank you all for the opportunity,” Finn told me and the other judges. He turned to leave with a smile so cautiously hopeful that I had to look away, down at my hands. Neutral? Fuck, I wasn’t.
But I would do my damned hardest to be fair.
“Quick break, everyone!” Garcia announced to the room. “Back here in fifteen when we’ll announce our winner.”
I leaned back, pretending to think, while the attending next to me scribbled a four onto her score sheet.
Garcia, on my other side, gave Finn a five, and so did the senior fellow next to him.
I couldn’t see the final judge’s rating, but two fives?
It was enough, almost certainly. Unless the attending on the far side gave Finn a three, which—highly doubtful.
Did he deserve a five from me? Possibly. But if somehow, for some reason, someone decided to question my judgment…
I noted four out of five. It felt just the slightest hint like breaking a promise I’d made, but he’d win anyway, right? So it was better this way. For my sake, yes—but for his sake, too.
“Clipboards?” Garcia asked.
I handed mine over and tried not to think too hard about tonight’s end-of-boot-camp social mixer, or about how, come Monday, Finn would almost certainly start his three-month rotation in pediatric surgery—where I’d be the one reviewing his progress, signing off on his performance, and fighting to keep every line between us sharp and professional.
Well, fuck.