Sorry? Sorry for what?
And then I hear the explosion, and Matt’s legs jolt with the impact.
I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Even though I’ve never heard a gun go off beforeexcept for in television or the movies, I know instinctively what it is. The intruder had a gun. And for some reason, he has fired it.
And now it’s very quiet in the room. It’s so quiet that I can hear my own heart thudding in my chest. And another sound: whimpering. If Matt got shot, wouldn’t he yell? Curse?Something?I tug on Matt’s pants leg, but he ignores me again. I wait for him to gesture at me again, but he doesn’t. And then I see his left hand, hanging limply off the side of the chair.
Oh no. Oh God…
I want to come out, but something stops me. I remember how fervently Matt had pointed at the ground, signaling to me that I needed to stay hidden. He did that for a reason. I need to stay down here—my life may depend on it.
So I wait.
After what seems like an eternity, I hear the door to the office open and the footsteps of someone walking out then shutting the door behind him. Matt and I are alone again, or so it seems. I wait hopefully to hear Matt’s voice, for him to tell me that everything is okay and it’s safe to come out. But it’s getting pretty damn obvious that isn’t going to happen.
And then I hear a second gunshot, coming from outside the office. Oh God.
I hug my knees, not sure what to do. If only I had brought my phone, I could call for help, but without it, I can only wait. I force myself to count to one hundred, then I crawl out from underneath the desk. My knees ache from being bent in that position for so long. I grab the top of the desk to steady myself as I rise to my feet, but my fingers slide right off the surface. The desk is wet. I look at my fingers and see the dark-red substance on them.
That’s when I see Matt slumped forward in his chair, right in front of me. For half a second, I’m able to kid myself that he’s just unconscious. But when I see the blood coming from theback of his head, I know that isn’t the case. I cover my mouth, smearing blood across my lips, trying to keep from passing out.
I’m still nearly four years away from being a doctor, but it doesn’t take any advanced degree to know that Matt Conlon is dead.
I bend down in front of his body and lay my head down on his lap. I cry for the millionth time this week, this time knowing that he won’t be able to comfort me. I reach for his limp hand and hold it in mine. How can it end this way? It isn’t fair…
As I sob into his slacks, I hear Matt’s voice speaking. But the voice is coming from within my head:What are you doing, Rachel? I tried to save you! Get the hell out of here!
He’s right. I’ve got to get out of here. Beforehecomes back. He already fired two bullets, and I’m willing to bet that gun has plenty more.
I rise to my feet, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I take one last look at Matt. His head is leaning forward as if he is resting, and his arms are hanging off the sides of his chair. His blue eyes are cracked open, staring into nothing. There are only slight flecks of blood on the front of his shirt—the wall behind him has taken most of the brunt. I mouth the words “I love you” then open the door to his office and get the hell out of there.
PART IV
MASON
56
THE FIRST DAY
“Lookto your left and look to your right.”
Christ, this is stupid.
I’m not into the whole “motivational speech” crap. Dean Bushnell is trying to get us all psyched up. I get it. But this is just dumb.
Besides, he’s wrong. Not everyone in this room is going to be a doctor. Some of them are going to drop out. Some will flunk out (probably that girl two seats over with the bullring through her nose). And if the last few years are any indication, a bunch of them are going to turn to drugs to get through the year. And one of them might taketoomany of those pills and stop breathing.
Not me, though.
I’m going to graduate in four years with the highest honors, and I’m going to land myself the best residency in the whole damn country. Wait and see.
I look over at my roommate, Abe. I’ve been calling him the Incredible Hulk as a joke. No kidding, slap a little green paint on the guy, and he’d be a dead ringer. Minus the temper, though. Abe is too mild-mannered to be in med school. He’s a good roommate, though—he’s a slob like me.
Abe’s really taking in the dean’s inspiring words. His jaw is hanging open, awed by the whole experience. He’s going to be one of those touchy-feely doctors—you can just tell. When he rotates in the hospital, everyone will write on his evals that he has a great bedside manner.
Nobody’s going to say I’ve got a great bedside manner. I’ll be shocked if a few of the residents I work with don’t write down that I’m a huge asshole. But who cares? They’re going to love me on my surgery rotation, and that’s all that matters. That’s what I was born to do.
My father is a cardiothoracic surgeon. Dr. Walter Howard is the head of cardiothoracic surgery at Yale and one of the most respected surgeons in the country. I used to want to do what he was doing, but he told me don’t bother. Angioplasty is killing his field. When I graduated college, Dad took me aside and said, “Plastics, son. That’s where the money is.”
