They’re a strong group. Great reputation. Any other options?”
“Not really. No other bites so far.”
“Have you met with Dr. Collier yet?”
“Later this afternoon. Why?”
“Just let me know how it goes,” he answers cryptically. He punches my shoulder and speeds away.
The snoring resident mutters to himself in his sleep and rolls toward the wall.
Bemused, I rub my aching shoulder and turn back to the computer.
There’s one more person I need to check on in the personnel files.
Luis Martínez, it seems, took a less traditional route than GG, or myself, or most other residents I know, to becoming a doctor. From his hometown of Los Angeles, he went straight from high school into the Marine Corps. No details on what he did or where he was stationed while in the Marines, but he was honorably discharged after ten years. Undergraduate degree from the University of California, Berkeley, with a double major in biochemistry and philosophy.
Philosophy?
I snort.
That’s interesting. He never struck me as the philosophy type.
Still. A pretty smart guy. Harvard Medical School. Surgical internship here at University Hospital. Medical license in good standing from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
And something else. Something I’ve never before seen in this system.
An encrypted folder marked “Confidential.”
Huh.
I wonder what that’s all about.
I have just enough time to realize that the folder’s encryption algorithms are quite secure, and well beyond my ability to crack them, before a door opens behind me, and I hear voices.
I hurriedly sign out of the system, erase the computer’s Internet browser history, and start plowing once more through Mr. Bernard’s medication orders.
* * *
An hour later, I’m sitting in Dr. Collier’s huge office wearing a clean shirt, tie, and starched white coat. We face each other in comfortable leather chairs surrounded by a paper-and-glass sea of diplomas, medical-board certificates, awards, and signed pictures of famous, grateful patients. Soft classical music drifts from hidden speakers.
He starts off with some small talk, asking me about my family and such, then asks how the junior residents and the students are doing. He’s particularly interested in GG, on whom he’s already heard favorable buzz. I let him know everyone’s doing fine and that GG seems to be the real deal.
He grunts his approval, settles back in his chair, and examines his elegantly manicured nails.
“So, Steven … since our last talk, have you given any more thought as to what you’d like to do next year after you graduate from our program?”
“Well, sir, we really enjoy living in Boston. Sally’s family is here. So we were hoping to stay in the area.”
“Mmm. I understand that Northwest Hospital has been speaking with you about a position.”
“Yes, they have.”
“That’s a fine group.” He’s still examining his nails.
“Yes, sir, they are.”
“If you’re going into community practice, you couldn’t do much better.”
“No.”
“Steve, have you considered not going into community practice?”
My heart hammers away at my chest as I struggle to play it cool. Is this the opening I was hoping for?
“I don’t … I’m not sure I understand, Dr. Collier.”
Dr. Collier’s attention shifts from his fingernails back to me. He leans forward in his chair. The Italian leather sighs. “That is, would you consider staying here with us? At this medical school, in our department? As a member of the faculty?”
Yes!
“Ummm … honestly, I didn’t know you were looking, Dr. Collier.”
“Well, Steven, we aren’t. Officially. But it’s like the great football coach once said: Even if I don’t have an opening on my team right now, if I see talent, I make an opening on the team. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Give it some thought. You’re a talented young man. You have the potential to do important work in our
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