After that night—that awful night when Alyssa tucks me into bed and I watch rain slide down my windows till the sun rises—I see him everywhere.

In patients’ rooms as we move down our rounds list at 5 a.m., always with two other residents—and almost always with each other. In the donut room at odd moments, when Landon’s at the table tackling a BLT, which seems to be his go-to. In the ER as we frenziedly evaluate two best friends with a matching set of spinal injuries after a hiking fall. As I scrub into surgery and he scrubs out, he lifts an eyebrow and deadpans, “I hear it’s dicey in there.”

I get paged to room 310 on Thursday, and Landon’s there already, rocking on his heels beside a little girl, who’s laughing her face off in the railed bed. “No, hear this one,” she cries, waving her arm.

He grins. “Okay. Hit me.”

“What do you call cheese that isn’t yours?” she asks him, beaming.

He raises his brows. “Nacho cheese?”

“Noooo! How did you know,” she groans.

He laughs. “Bad jokes are my thing.”

“That wasn’t bad,” she insists. “It was awesome!”

I look on like a voyeur as he says, “How do oceans say hello?”

The girl, six or seven, tilts her bandage-wrapped head. Then her jaw falls open. “They wave!”

Landon’s fingers snap. Boom. “Why did the math book look so sad?” he fires off.

She mulls it over, then lifts her gaze to me. “Do you know?”

“’Fraid not.”

“Because it has so many problems, of course.” He must have a silly expression on his face, because the girl gives him one of her own.

Damn. When did he become so outgoing?

“I don’t want to have more problems,” the girl says suddenly. She looks on the verge of tears. “I want to go home now!”

I watch his shoulders tighten as he pauses for a brief moment, before he says, “Already? But you’ve only been here five days.”

Tears fill her brown eyes. “I want to see my puppy. Her name’s Gertrude.”

“Why would a puppy be named Gertrude?” Landon asks her in a funny voice.

“Because she is! Gertrude was my mommy’s puppy’s name, and her mom’s puppy’s name. It’s a family name, that’s why.”

Landon chuckles. “I like that. Do you have a picture of her?”

“It’s a him.”

Now he’s really laughing. “A him? Gertrude? What kind of dog is this? Now I really need to see this picture.”

I can’t help but smile at his broad, coat-clad back.

“My mommy has it,” she says, looking torn between pouty and pleased at the attention Landon’s giving her.

He looks over his shoulder. “You can go if you’d like, Dr. Rutherford. Meghan’s mom went to run an errand, so I’m staying till she’s back.”

I nod slowly, feign a polite smile. “Okay,” I say as I leave the room. “But I’m going to have to hear some more about this Gertrude.”

Outside in the hall, I take a few deep breaths before I get another page, this one for a new admission.

Later in the evening, I wind up with Landon in the donut room. He’s standing at the fridge, crooked-smiling down at his cell phone with a charmed look on his gorgeous, five-o’clock-shadowed face. For a sick second, my stomach curls into a ball as I imagine who he might be texting. Then he lifts his head and nods me over.

I step closer to him, and he turns the phone to me. I blink at a picture of a Welsh Corgi.

“Gertrude.” He grins.

“Oh my goodness. She’s— he’s…very pretty. Total Gertrude right there.” I smile, because the dog really does sort of look like a Gertrude.

“I know, right?”

I laugh. “Oh yeah. Do you think she’ll get to see Gertrude soon?” I ask, meaning the patient.

“What do you think?”

I brushed up on the girl’s charts after our earlier encounter. She had a benign brain tumor removed. I shrug. “As long as there’s no infection, I’d presume so.”

“Would you?” he asks.

“Would I what?”

“Presume so.”

Is that the ghost of a smirk? I give him a brows-raised look. “Are you making fun of me, Dr. Jones?”

“Who, me? Never.” But he can’t resist: his mouth curves up on one side.

“Was it the word ‘presume’? I would presume you’ve heard it before.”

He smiles, then tries to stifle it, and then succeeds. “It wasn’t that,” he says softly.

“What was it?”

“I just felt like teasing you.” His face is solemn. It’s the face of someone who’s done something wrong. Who should be pledging never to do that thing again—but isn’t. As I look at him, the air around us simmers. It’s making my pulse race, so I step closer to him.

I brush his coat collar, and Landon looks down. When he does, I thump his nose.

His jaw drops in mock fury.

I dance over to the door, and Landon stalks me, even as I wrap my hand around the handle.

“I know you didn’t thump me on the nose, Evie. Presumably, you know that’s not a smart idea…”

I laugh. “Well, I’m not that smart.”

I press myself against the door, and Landon closes the distance between us.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” he says. “I think you just want a fight.” His eyelids are lowered, his jaw tight as he reaches out and tugs a strand of my hair. “Am I right?” He presses his thumb to my lower lip.

I whisper, “Yes.”

Then the door behind me shakes.

“Hello?” a voice says. I move away from the door, and Audrey Kim, our fellow first-year resident, comes in, bearing a heaping plate of cafeteria spaghetti.

She looks from me to Landon. “What’s up?”

I laugh, because it’s what I do when I’m uncomfortable.

“Did I miss something funny?” she asks.

Landon shows her the picture of Gertrude and tells that story, and I notice Audrey’s eyes flit to him as she sits down to eat her dinner.

“Sounds like you have a new patient friend,” she says. “You must be good with kids.”

My stomach bottoms out.

“I think they’re little snots,” she says as she chews.

Landon shrugs. I watch him as he turns and grabs a bottle of cold brew coffee, downs most of the bottle, and tosses it into the garbage on his way out the door. He doesn’t look back.

I’m still feeling shell-shocked when Audrey murmurs, “He’s a catch.”

I blink. “Who’s a what?”

“Jones. Who else? That man is hot as fuck. The stubble…” She runs her hand over her own face. “Mmm-mmm, come to mama.”

I swallow, careful with my face as I delve into the refrigerator. “Yeah, a man with some stubble is my favorite.”

“He’s my favorite. I’ll have our babies. He can raise them. I want like, one kid. That’s it. Just the token doctor’s snot, and that’s it.” She holds her hands up, and we shoot the shit for a few minutes while I inhale a chocolate chip muffin.

That night as I drive home, I look for Landon on the empty sidewalk.

* * *

I try to accustom myself to his presence. I start counting, and I find I see him an average of nine times every day. He smiles, tells jokes, charms patients, and moves in and out of the OR, just like I do. I hear other people talk about him like he’s theirs instead of mine. Because he isn’t mine.

One night, as I walk past the donut room, whose door is open, I hear one second-year resident tell another: “I heard that new guy, Jones, got in on Eilert’s big craniopharyngioma resection. Helped with the endoscope. Eilert said he has great hands.”

“So fucking jealous,” the other one says.

“You can tell he’s the kind of dude who—”

That’s all I hear as I pass by them, rushing to check on a patient with a leaking stent. I’m helping stabilize her for half an hour before she goes into surgery with Squires, one of the older attendings. By then, it’s almost 9 o’clock in the evening, so I take a seat in the donut room and start tackling my twenty-some remaining floor notes as fast as possible.

I’m on the fourth note when my primary pager buzzes. It’s an emergent summons to OR 4. I grab my stuff and race over. When I reach the area, I find it packed with residents—including Landon.

I watch as Dr. Kraft, one of our two chief residents, raises his arms and looks around the room, at the six of us.

“We’ve got something rare right here in OR 4—a microvascular decompression being performed by our attending, Dr. Nate, on a five-year-old girl with intractable hemifacial spasm. Nerve and vessel will be separated by a tiny Teflon sponge. These surgeries are not common and complications from them are. Pediatric HFS is exceedingly rare, and even more complex than usual. Bettie and Stern, scrub in. The rest of you, you’ll want to watch footage of the procedure at your leisure and follow-up with Dr. Nate with any questions. He’s one of the best so pick his brain before he retires.” Kraft looks down at his own pager, then back up. “Jones and Rutherford, you’re wanted down in the ER.”

Landon’s eyes find mine, and I can tell he’s disappointed, just as I am, not to scrub in for the MVD. Kraft is right—it is a fairly rare procedure, and to see a pediatric MVD is even more interesting. I sigh, and Landon and I head for the room’s back door. He pushes it open, nodding me in front of him. I can feel his eyes on my back as we head down the hallway, toward a staircase that will deposit us near the ER, on floor one.

“Wonder what this is,” I mutter as we hit the stairwell.

“Probably a hemorrhage,” he says dryly.

Older people with hypertension-exacerbated brain bleeds are some of our most frequent, and least interesting, customers.

“Or a herniated disc. Totally bet it’s a herniated disc. We’re the only ones available since everyone else is either in surgery or not quite here yet.”

Landon winks as he opens the door at the bottom of the stairwell. “You can take that herniated disk. I’ve got thirty floor notes to finish before we hit The Fourteener for that Deltoids gig.”

“Um, what?” I ask as we make for the ER door.

“The Fourteener? That’s the resident Friday night hangout, Evie. Haven’t you been keeping up?” A glance reveals he’s joking.

“What’s a Deltoids gig?”

“The Deltoids is band some students at your school are in. Pre-med guys. Guys and girls,” he says.

I frown, wondering how Landon knows things about Alpine University that I don’t.

Then we’re in the ER, and there is so much screaming. Prinz—Levi Prinz, our fellow first-year—is right in front of us, along with Eilert. I notice that her face looks extra tense before she gestures us into a nook of the large room and briskly informs us, “We’re looking at two siblings here, both just arriving: two-year-old and three-year-old with facial trauma and possible cervical fractures. Father tried to injure them while mom looked on. Dad is coming in on a stretcher, shot by one of the responding officers, who’s also coming in. Prinz, assist me on the father’s gunshot. Jones and Rutherford, you’ll triage and work CTs on the boys, in bays four and five.” Her voice fades out as I start moving toward the area she mentioned, Landon at my side. I don’t know how I know to look at him—I guess I sense something—but when I do, I find his eyes unblinking, his face a shade too pale.

We reach the bays, partitioned off by sheets, and I realize that’s where the wailing is come from. Of course it is. Landon’s lips press tight and he gives me a brief, stoic look before we push the curtains back and there they are: two tiny bodies on big stretchers, both kids red-faced and wailing while nurses and EMTs, one DPD officer and two attendings, rush around them.

The next two hours blink by. Afterward, I find myself back up in a restroom on floor three, and I don’t even remember walking back up. It’s eleven-thirty and I feel numb. Numb and exhausted.

As it turns out, both kids were basically okay, and I expect them to make full recoveries—physically. Emotionally…my stomach still feels wobbly thinking of it.

When, a half hour later, a couple of us finish for the night about the same time, Prinz suggests we hit The Fourteener. “Don’t know about you fine folks, but I could use a drink.”

Everyone agrees, and we call a Lyft with the plan to drink our woes away. The ones of us on schedule for tomorrow will guzzle some Powerade and pop a few NSAIDs, then Lyft back when it’s time to be here.