Page 106 of Hold the Pickle
“We haven’t seen you in forever,” Fitz says, ordering for me and passing me a cup. “How are the babies in maternity?”
“Terrifying,” I tell her. “It’s a crisis all the time, but when they go home, it’s the best.”
Harrington nods. “Bones don’t die, generally. Orthopedics has settled my nerves.”
Fitz takes her coffee and we head to a table by the windows in the cafeteria. “Surgery is intense. Sometimes we are in there for twelve hours straight. I had to buy different shoes, get wrist guards. I never imagined having to stand in the same position holding an artery until my arms want to fall off.”
I nod. “I never imagined holding a baby who weighs less than a pound.”
We fall quiet.
“Intern exams coming,” Harrington says, peering into his cup.
“We’ll study together,” Fitz says. “We’ll pass, no problem.”
“Have either of you thought about transferring to a new hospital after the internship year?” I ask them.
“No way,” Fitz says. “That’s hard to do.”
“No,” Harrington agrees.
I look over the cafeteria. It’s early, so mostly nurses and hospital personnel wander about.
“Is this about the girl?” Fitz asks.
I shrug. “Not really. I think it’s done.”
“Long distance is hard,” Harrington says.
Fitz nudges him, making her curls bounce. “Like you would know.”
Harrington shrugs.
“Where would you apply?” Fitz asks. “It’s a long shot that you’d find an opening somewhere for a first-year resident.”
She’s right. I looked at Boulder after I moved to neonatology, and the closest I could get to Nadia would be in Denver, about an hour away. There’s a children’s hospital there. But it’s a huge long shot. Any interns already there would have first pick at the residencies.
My phone buzzes. Twins crowning. “Here we go,” I tell them. “Let’s plan some study sessions.”
“And we can grab a burger again,” Harrington says.
“All of us,” Fitz adds.
“Definitely.” I pick up my coffee and stride out of the cafeteria.
The room I’m headed to is closer to the main bank of elevators than the service one, so I push the button in the atrium.
“Dalton?”
I turn. It’s Camryn, looking resplendently pregnant in a yellow jumpsuit.
“Hey.” My gaze meets Max, who shoulders a duffel bag. “You two checking in? Are you in labor?”
“My water broke,” Camryn says. “So here we are.”
“On time? Early? Late?”
“I was due next week,” Camryn says. “Close enough, I’m told.”
