Epilogue
Jesse
I. February
The wind hit differently—that’s what I noticed first. In New York, it whipped along glass-and-steel canyons and slapped you right in the face no matter which way you turned. Here, it felt river-adjacent, like thick wool socks in rubber boots.
I nudged the door of Shane’s car shut and took a deep, steadying breath.
Ashwick. The drive here had been choppy—nothing serious, but the distant threat of snow seemed to have launched rush hour early.
At first glance, the town seemed slightly rough around the edges, near the river and only halfway discovered by commuters and artists priced out of the city.
There was the odd brick warehouse turned into a coffee shop, yes, but also streets where paint was peeling and the train rattled half-closed blinds.
Not that I’d be living here. If I got the position—if—I’d pick something halfway to the city because, well. Finn.
But first, I had to land the job.
I checked my reflection before a revolving door allowed me into the lobby.
Heat rose from old radiators, the floor worn but polished to a sheen.
Above the reception desk, a poster invited donations to a women’s shelter—a teddy bear someone had positioned just below that clutched a hand-written thank-you note circled by a heart.
“How can I help you?” The receptionist’s smile was wider than anything I’d seen behind Devon’s information desks.
“Interview with Surgery,” I said. “Dr. Jesse Maddox.”
“Welcome, Dr. Maddox.” As if she genuinely intended to remember my name. Huh. “It’s on the third floor—elevators are straight ahead. Good luck!”
She probably said that to every candidate. Still, it was a nice gesture.
“Thank you,” I said, and she waved me off with another beaming smile. All right, I kind of liked this place already.
In the elevator, I checked my phone and found a quick note from Finn.
You’ve GOT this, it said, exactly what he’d told me this morning before he’d scrambled out for his shift—that, and how they’d be crazy not to hire me on the spot.
Well, fingers crossed. I’d applied to other hospitals, too, because I wasn’t about to bet it all on a single spin, but they were farther away.
Deep breath.
I’ve got this.
Upstairs, a woman with short silver hair was already waiting for me, hand out. “Dr. Maddox? I’m Karen Johnson, head of OR nursing. Come on back.”
She had a no-nonsense air about her that felt genuine rather than performative, like if her car broke down, she’d know exactly what to do. We shook hands, then turned down a short corridor, past a TV on mute that cycled through local weather. Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not at Devon anymore.
The conference room was big enough for a table that seated eight, heavy wood rather than stainless steel and glass, a jug of water sweating onto a paper napkin, and a dry-erase map of the OR schedule with fewer lines than I was used to, listing aggressively standard procedures.
For a half second, my ego raised its head and scented the air.
Then I remembered why I was here, and it scuttled back into the shadows.
Three people rose and introduced themselves.
A compact man with a calm face—Dr. Kent, Chief of Surgery.
A woman with neat glasses—Dr. Rhee, anesthesia.
HR perched at the corner with a legal pad and a poised pen as if to remind me that anything I said could and would be used against me.
I shook hands all around and hoped I hit the perfect midway point between dead fish and vise.
“Thanks for coming up.” Kent indicated a chair that looked retro enough to be cool again. When I sat, it was surprisingly comfortable.
“Thanks for having me,” I said.
“Well, you do come highly recommended.” Kent moved on before I could comment. “We’ll keep this straightforward—we can talk, then Karen will give you a brief tour. Let’s keep it honest, no hard sell.”
“Shame,” I said. “I do love a branded stress ball.”
Damn—there went my mouth again. Nerves. I kept smiling as Kent quirked a brow and Rhee’s mouth tipped. HR actually wrote something down, which—well. No use wondering.
“So.” Kent leaned back. “Your CV is certainly impressive. Walk us through it, please.”
I did, trying to keep it clean and professional, nothing that would come across as bragging to people who I suspected liked things simple.
Any sign of entitlement or excessive confidence might tank my chances here.
Educated at Stanford, then a general surgery residency at Devon, currently completing my pediatric surgery fellowship there.
I didn’t mention the eighty-hour weeks, or the way I’d once cried on a rooftop when a baby came off bypass and didn’t wake up.
I also didn’t mention falling in love with an intern and kissing him where anyone could see because I’d forgotten that New York is a village.
“You were in the OR for the Jackson twins’ separation?” Rhee asked.
I’d expected the question. There’d been some media attention afterwards, the parents taking to the press to express their joy and gratitude—good publicity for Devon in general and Dr. Novak in particular. And me, by extension.
“I assisted on Dr. Novak’s side, yes.” Keep it modest. “It’s been incredibly educational. We prepared extensively—simulations, clamp times, everything. She had a plan, and the rest of us followed it to the very last detail.”
“I read the case report summary.” Rhee’s expression veered from panel formality into genuine fascination. “Did the anesthesia teams really manage to keep both sets of vitals stable through the liver division? I’ve been trying to picture the setup in real time.”
“Everything came in twos—two full teams, mirrored equipment. Monitors, ventilators, arterial lines… It was”—probably the most intricate case I’ll ever put my hands on—“quite the experience. A little like trying to land two planes side by side on the same runway, without letting either so much as wobble.”
Kent cleared his throat. “I assume you know we don’t get cases like that here, Dr. Maddox.”
Treacherous ground. I nodded and kept it simple. “I’m aware, yes.”
“So why Ashwick?” he asked. Right to the point—frank but fair. I liked it. Now I just needed to deliver the answer I’d practiced, the one I believed.
“Devon Memorial is a cathedral.” I let it sit for a half second. “Everything is big and historical, miracles are par for the course. A year ago, I might have told you that I wanted that. A flagship program—proof that I could stand at the edge and not blink.”
Kent considered me. “So what changed?”
I met someone who made me reconsider.
“I realized I don’t want to live at that kind of pitch forever. Not long-term.” I inhaled. “This feels like the right size—smaller rooms and faces you remember, not just cases you pass off to someone else because the beeper goes off for the next crisis. And you do good work here.”
HR, silent until now, peered up from her notepad. “Do you worry this might feel like a step down?”
“No.” I glanced at the dry-erase. “This, here—it’s a chance to place greater focus on my patients, rather than just parachuting in and out.
I’d still do good, clean surgery. There’s community here, continuity.
And I’d go home with something left in the tank to care about who’s waiting there.
” I held her gaze. “That’s not a step down, no. That’s the life I want.”
A second of silence followed. Too honest? Too heavy?
“So what you’re saying…”—Kent leaned back, brief humor twitching around his mouth—“is that you’d choose this modest chapel over a city cathedral?”
Ha, okay. I liked this guy.
“If you leave the door unlocked, I’ll bring the bake-sale pies.
” I said it lightly to ease the weight of my earlier words.
It worked—Kent’s smile formed fully this time and Rhee’s brows flicked up in amusement while both HR and head nurse Johnson relaxed by a fraction.
For the first time, it felt less like I was being measured, and more like I was being heard.
I was in.
Finn
II. April
Tessa kissed my cheek, Khai’s mouth, and dropped into a chair like a doll with her strings cut. “That’s it. I’m quitting.”
“That’s what you say after every twenty-four-hour shift,” I told her. Not that I didn’t know the feeling—my bones had that Jell-O thing going on, reality too bright and oddly soft at the edges.
“Know what’s gonna help with that, babe?” Khai slid a cappuccino and half a pistachio cookie in front of her. “This. Coffee and sugar.”
I nodded. “Doctor’s orders.”
She tossed us a tired smile and leaned into a sunbeam, bracelets clinking like wind chimes as she reached for the mug.
For a minute, we simply existed together.
The café door was propped open, spring air sneaking in to mingle with the smells of espresso and almond croissants.
A grinder whirred. A tattered magnolia tree outside the window wore the exact pink of Tessa’s newly dyed hair.
A bowl just outside the café offered water to dogs “or people with low standards because we don’t judge. ”
“All right, crew,” Tessa said after a few sips. “Research time.”
Khai tapped open his phone to pull up a shared note we’d started in the autumn titled Caffeine Trial, Devon Cohort. Our categories included cream, milk foam, vibes, baked goods, and bathroom-mirror lighting. “Ready and loaded.”
“Peer review is vital,” I agreed—only today, rating latte art wasn’t the only thing on my mind.
Maybe it wasn’t ideal when all of us were two hours past human, but then, that was our usual.
Came with the ritual of meeting up every time our night shifts spat us out half-chewed and blinking into the daylight.
“So.” Tessa snapped her fingers. “Milk foam. What’s the verdict?”
I tugged down the sleeves of my sweater. Not mine, technically—Jesse’s. But of course Khai and Tessa had no way of knowing that. “Actually,” I said, “I’ve got a new category: coffee confessions.”
“Intriguing,” Khai said.