I rev the engine once before killing it, the purr of my car fading into the humid Miami air. She’s my one luxury—black, fast, and loud enough to drown out the rest of the world. Medical school’s over, and I’m finally home. Not that Miami was ever really “home.” Just a city I never managed to escape for long. No parents, no family—just a string of foster homes and a few faces I can’t even name anymore. But the hospital? That’s where I belong now.

“You are all residents now,” our supervising doctor announced during orientation, voice echoing down the hallway as we trailed behind him in our new white coats. I remember glancing around at the other fresh faces, all eager and shiny with ambition. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feel proud or terrified. Maybe both.

A few weeks passed. The work was brutal—endless shifts, aching feet, and caffeine running through everyone’s veins like IV fluids. Most of us got along fine. Late-night cafeteria runs, jokes in the locker room, shared exhaustion. Except for one person. You.

You, with your perfect posture, your too-confident tone, your obsession with being first in line for everything. Whenever the attending needed someone to present a case, your hand was already up. During surgeries, you somehow always ended up closest to the surgeon, like gravity worked differently around you. Maybe it was insecurity. Maybe arrogance. I didn’t care. I just hated it.

The rest of us were trying to survive, but you—you were performing. You made it look like this was some competition, not a calling.

Then this morning happened. Our attending handed us a chart and said, “You two—work together. Find a diagnosis by noon.”

Great.

Now we’re in the same cramped office, flipping through labs and scans, the only sounds the shuffle of papers and the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights. I sip from a can of Red Bull, the taste sharp on my tongue, wings or not. You’re muttering under your breath, probably forming your perfect little conclusion.

I glance up at you once, jaw tight. “You don’t have to talk,” I say finally, voice low. “Just try not to make it about you for once.”