Chapter 2
ALL HAIL THE ANKING
When staring into the glossy black doomscreen, one might speculate that you never know who’s running the algorithm on the other side.
But in the bitter, stark reality, who’s on the other end of the mask right in front of you?
On one face, we have the Comedian, the snake charmer, the smiling mask.
On the other, we have the Tragedy, the wretched soul, the frowning mask.
And on my favorite mortals, the two switch out like surgical instruments, cutting deeper and deeper into perceived reality until they’ve melted into their real face.
Clinical pearl #2: Keep performing, theater kid. Everybody loves the comedian, but the real love story is always a tragedy!
THANATOS
Kane slams himself down into the plastic booth across from me, scrubs a hole-filled mess, scowl a raging glare. “Let’s get this over with,” he hisses, tossing a ragged, torn-up backpack next to him.
“Well, hello, sunshine,” I greet warmly, glancing up from my computer.
My medical school’s library is painted in soothing shades of blue, teal, and vibrant violets, in contrast to Kane’s thunderously dark mood.
But even better to witness his outburst are the medical students I knew would be planted around this carefully selected spot.1
Earlier this morning, I did my daybreak rounds of socializing to confirm that everyone was in place.
The well-adjusted, future primary care flock basked in the sunny pavilion; Hyacinth and her motley crew avoided the light in the silent area; the internal medicine nerds cohabited in the communal study room; and Luke and the gunners who despised each other scattered like roaches across any remaining cubicles.
The silent area was, as usual, loud as hell when they saw me roll by, all studious activity replaced by chatter at the arrival of a new distraction. And the gunners, who learned long ago that I was not a threat, waved at me in between attacking their space bar to fly through Anki cards.2
I kept a wide berth from where David studied, but still spotted him in the corner of my eye, arm wrapped around Calypso, classmates full-body laughing at what he said. He gesticulated wildly, voice rising and falling, telling some elaborate tale that had everyone fawning like his personal acolytes.
Seeing them gathered without me had my stomach knotted like a surgical patient’s, telescoping into something unrecognizable.
Especially when I realized Calypso was in my former study seat.
My breaths stilled.
I used to think making new friends was impossible when the ghastly school-plus-rotation combo took up days, nights, weekends, and holidays.
And it was even more jarring to try to date men who were frustrated that I wasn’t available every hour at their beck and call.
Which is why I felt so lucky when I was asked out by David, someone who was one of us, someone who understood.
I used to study with him, letting him vent all his frustrations out about medical school to me. For months, I acted as his personal secretary and record-keeper through the long nights.
Don’t forget, I used to say, about the assignment next week.
Hey, did you hear Dr. Smith needs a student to write up a case report?
You honored that exam! That’s your best one yet. I knew you could do it!
And then he ditched me for the next shapely set of legs, and I learned a valuable lesson: love isn’t precious. An exorbitant waste of time, poured into a black hole that takes and takes and takes without giving anything in return.
And now he’s thriving, surrounded by friends who worship the ground he walks on, while I’m emotionally deserted, left to do all the work by myself. Alone.
Unmoored, sinking under the pressure, with nobody to grab my hand and pull me out.
So I turned on my heel, dove deeper into my sea of bad decisions, and marched over to where Kane and I would sit.
This is the perfect location for a fake first date between an intern and a medical student: my home base, Cornfield Legends’ library.
And now that the sun’s moved to its prime position high in the sky, the booth I’ve chosen for us is illuminated brilliantly for everyone’s snooping, but also far enough from earshot for us to speak truthfully.
It’s been nearly a month since I last saw Kane, with zero communication between occasional, timid smiles in the hallway, so I figured it was time to pretend we’re dating again.
Besides, I have a list of topics to study, emails to send, and quirks to learn about him for any busybodies who ask.
Hence, me trapping him at my home lair.
I peer up at him again, sulking across from me. “What’s got my favorite demon in one of his infamous moods?”
“Guess,” he says, yanking open one of the zipper pockets of his raggedy backpack to snatch a protein bar. He rips it open too fast, crumbs exploding everywhere.
He bites through, unfazed.
“You couldn’t do that in the car?” I ask, resisting the urge to reach over and clean up his crumbs. Mess disturbs me to my core, especially when they’re self-imposed.
“Busy,” he spits out between bites.
I push down any lingering thoughts of improving this man and making him palatable personality-wise. I can’t get anywhere with a littering slob.
I clear my throat, determined to get down to business. “Well, item one for today. Be seen together in public.”
“Done,” he says, tossing the wrapper in the trash. He unzips the big pocket of his backpack.
“Item two,” he says, tossing out a black plastic takeout container. “Make sure you eat protein before diabetes claims you.”
He lifts it open, revealing a family-sized chicken alfredo and an entire strawberry cheesecake from my favorite restaurant.
The scent of thick, creamy pasta wafts throughout the air as my mouth falls open.
“Kane,” I gasp, “You didn’t need to—”
“If you don’t eat it, I will. That’s a threat.” He tosses a fork at me. “I asked Hyacinth what your favorite order is.”
I catch it, heart somersaulting with a rush of irritating, confusing warmth. How could a doctor with such a perpetually unpleasant attitude do something so… preemptively thoughtful?
“You have Hyacinth’s number?” I ask.
“No, but the chief does,” he says.
I file that away under my very interesting development category. Technically, she is his medical student, so it’s not that strange, but…. Hmm.
Maybe I’m not the only one dancing with the devil these days.
Or maybe Kane’s just trying to look good in public. He’s just brilliant at manipulation.
Against my better judgment, I twirl up the pasta and munch.
“Oh my God,” I moan. It’s still hot, melting in my mouth with each bite. “It’s perfect.”
“I know,” he says brusquely. “What else?”
“Item three: unless you want to sit here in silence watching me eat—”
“Not my usual type of video, but so tempting—”
“I do actually need to study,” I choke, mid-bite. “Want to help?”
“No,” he says, blunt as ever. But he stands up, pushing the crumbs off the side of the table into his hands, then tosses them into the nearest trash can.
My anxiety calms, just a fraction.
But then he slumps back into the seat, reaches across the table, and swivels my computer over in one smooth motion, studying the screen.
“OB emergencies?” he asks. “Are you on labor and delivery?”
“Close, and I’m scared,” I admit. “Help me study?”
“It doesn’t bode well for your future that you’re already scared,” he says, cracking out kinks in his neck.
“Thanks,” I mutter. “My intern had to hide from me yesterday to go cry, and I’m worried I’m next in my attending’s tirade of wrath.”
“Scary.” His voice drips with sarcasm. Instead of saying something kind, soothing, or even encouraging, he flips through my study guide, drilling me like a sergeant. “How do you manage shoulder dystocia?”
“Shoulder dystocia is when the infant’s shoulder gets stuck—” I reason, thinking through my thoughts.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Asshole.
“Quit stalling. How do you fix it?”
“McRoberts maneuver and suprapubic pressure.”
“Which are?”
“Hyperflex the legs and press on the abdomen.”
“Good. Most common cause of postpartum hemorrhage?”
“Uterine atony.”
“And how do you fix it?”
“Well—”
I feel like I’m grasping at straws of air, at sloppily memorized Anki cards with no way to connect all the pieces.
“You’re stalling,” he says, nabbing a piece of chicken with a new fork.
“That wasn’t on my computer,” I retort, yanking my food back. I don’t know why, since I didn’t even buy it, but it’s my food now.
His lips turn up.
“Well?” he asks.
My foot taps anxiously, my mind flying through options. Atony means soft, so to fix something soft, you would have to…
“Fundal massage and oxytocin,” he says.
“How do you remember that?” I can see it in my head now, the card with a picture of a fundal massage technique on it. “How do you know how that card ends?”
“I made it.”
He reaches over, his arm impressively long, and steals another piece of chicken, while my mind goes blank.
“You made the Cornfield Anki deck,” I respond skeptically.
“Yes.”
“The one sorted by professor, exam, and subtopic.”
“Yes.”
“The one that every single M1 lives by, swears by, breathes by.”
“Yes.”
“The one that’s twenty thousand cards filled.”
“You’re awfully slow for a future surgeon,” he says.
Now, he’s not the only one getting irritated. My fingers drum against my knee as I counter him.
“You went to a different school,” I point out.
“My ex went here and needed help,” he says.
“That’s… deeply chopped man behavior, I’m afraid.” I turn my head away to hide my biting grin. There’s no way he did all of this for Calypso.
“Most of your in-house material is the same as board prep material,” he says, refusing to react. “It helped both of us.”
I can’t hide my grin now. “Fan behavior.”
“Sure. Keep making fun of me, and I’ll call the BrokeDash driver back,” he says, seizing another chicken piece.
I can’t believe he made the legendary, multi-class school Anki deck. No wonder he’s so smart.
“Eat your food,” he commands. “That shit was expensive.”