“Dr. Madison Mendes,” a tight voice echoes from down the hospital hall.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath as I force out a tight smile and turn around. “Hello, Dr. Clark. I was just about to check in with you after my rounds.”

“Your rounds can wait,” he says, staring at me through his thick glasses. The bright lights on the ceiling are reflecting on his head under his thin comb-over. “Follow me.”

He turns his tense body and storms down the hallway to his office. I feel an empty pit in my stomach as I follow him.

Two nurses, Carol and Shondra, give me matching smiles of sympathy as I pass their station. They saw the whole thing and know I’m about to get chewed out by my boss, the medical chief of staff.

I swallow hard as I step into his office where he’s already sitting behind his desk, staring at me with a stern look on his face. He looks pissed.

He’s been looking at me that way for the past five days.

“Everything okay, Dr. Clark?” I ask with a wariness in my voice as I slide into the chair in front of him. I keep my back straight as he crosses his hairy arms over his chest—staring me down like an elementary school principal on a power trip.

“No,” he snaps. “In your case, Dr. Mendes, everything is certifiably not okay.”

He pulls out a file from the drawer and slaps it onto the desk between us.

I lean forward and read the name. Patient Louis Newport. He was in here last week. Ruptured spleen. Bleeding internally. I diagnosed him and got him onto the surgeon’s table just in time.

“What’s the problem?” I ask when he just stares at me with a smug look on his face.

“What is the problem?” he repeats with a laugh. “Look at the paperwork. It’s a mess.”

“The paperwork?” I say, staring at him in disbelief. “I saved the man’s life.”

“Saving lives is your job,” he says, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. He picks up the stapled papers and waves them around in front of me. “This is also your job. And it’s unsatisfactory at best. Sloppy handwriting, writing outside the lines, and you missed your initials here.”

He tosses the papers back onto the desk and stares at me with a triumphant look on his weaselly face.

“Is this about Anabelle?” I ask.

His hard look and authoritative demeanor crumbles like a house of cards. The threatening man who was sitting in front of me is gone—replaced with a wet-eyed, sniveling pathetic shell of a man.

“Did she mention me?” he asks, staring at me with wide hopeful eyes.

“Um,” I say, trying to stall. He’s wringing his hands as he starts breathing heavier, barely holding himself together.

He grabs his cellphone off the desk and looks at it with a hope in his eyes that quickly disappears once he sees that she didn’t text him.

The text he’s looking for is from my best friend Anabelle who dumped him after three dates. I’m so glad I set them up.

“I keep calling her,” he says, looking frustrated as he runs his hand through his thin comb-over. “I always get her voicemail. Do you think she got the flowers I sent?”

I glance back at the door as my heart starts pounding. “I’m not sure,” I say with a gulp. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her.”

He frowns as he squeezes the cellphone in his hand, turning his knuckles white. “I better send her some more, just in case.”

“No,” I say when he hits a button that lights up his phone. “Maybe you should just give her some space.”

Anabelle definitely received the flowers. All four dozen of them. She also received the oversized teddy bear that went straight into the dumpster, the chocolates that I helped her eat, and the singing Lady Gaga telegram who was no lady at all. Nothing says romance like a poorly dressed transvestite singing Poker Face in the hallway of your apartment building.

“I’ve given her space,” he snaps. “What more does she want?”

A galaxy of space from what she’s told me.

“Maybe,” I stammer as I drop my eyes to the desk. “Maybe you two just aren’t meant to be?”

His wet eyes narrow sharply on me, causing me to lean back involuntarily.

“That’s the woman I want to marry,” he says, taking heavy breaths like an angry bull. “We will get married. And you will help that become a reality.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I will?”

“Yes,” he says, picking up Mr. Newport’s file off the desk. “Or we’re going to have bigger problems than just sloppy handwriting.”

“Sir,” I say as my stomach hardens. “I think we should separate our work lives from our personal lives. I’m worried they’re getting too muddled together.”

He grins as he looks over the form. “And I think you should give Anabelle a call to put in a good word for me. Or you might not have a work life anymore to worry about.”

My cheeks get hot as I stand up and shuffle to the door. I want to give him a piece of my mind for threatening my job over his dried-up sex life, but I just swallow it down instead. He’s heartbroken and not acting rationally. Maybe in a few days he’ll start thinking clearer.

I slip into a supply closet after leaving his office and sit on a stack of folded sheets as I dial Anabelle.

“Give me a second, sweetie,” she says when she answers. “I’m just ordering.”

I lean back against the wall and close my eyes as I listen to her ordering a late dinner at the drive-through.

“Yeah, I’ll take the chicken burger with a salad… You know what? Fuck it. Give me the fries. Do you have turkey burgers instead of chicken?”

All I hear is a muffled sound from the drive-through speaker, but whatever they’re saying, Anabelle doesn’t like it.

“Well, maybe people would order it if you had it on the freaking menu. Ever think of that?”

More muffled sounds.

“A bottled water… No, wait. I’ll take a Coke. No. A chocolate milkshake. Large.”

I hear more muffled sounds, and then she’s back. “Sorry about that, sweetie. I was just ordering a salad for dinner. Work has been c-ra-zy. How do people have time to cook anymore?”

I’m about to call her on her ‘salad’ when I decide that it’s better not to get on her bad side right before asking for a favor.

“I just had an interesting talk with Mitchell,” I say instead.

“Who?”

“Dr. Mitchell Clark,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “My boss who you dated.”

“Ew.” I can hear the disgust in her voice through the phone. “And we never dated.”

“You went on three dates.”

“As a favor to you.”

“I thought you’d like him.”

She’s laughing so hard that I have to pull the phone from my ear. “That guy?!? Madison, he proposed to me on the third date! The third freaking date. I know I’m lovable, but come on!”

“He’s not that bad.” He’s definitely that bad.

“You know what he has tattooed on his arm? Alf.”

“Alf? Like the alien guy?”

“Yes. Like the alien guy. He showed it to me proudly. God knows I could barely see it under all of his thick arm and shoulder hair.”

“You wanted me to hook you up with a doctor and I did,” I say, starting to panic.

“Yeah, but I was thinking George Clooney in ER, and the guy you set me up with was more like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers. He had a comb-over! Why would you set me up with a guy who has a comb-over?”

Looking back on it, I can see that it was a mistake, but at the time I just wanted my boss to have a distraction so that he would get off my back. Talk about a backfire. He’s even worse now than he was before.

“Can you just call him back?” I plead. “He’s making my life a living hell.”

“I did my part, sweetie,” she says. “I’m out. Plus, I’m already seeing someone.”

“You are?” How does she find these guys so fast? Anabelle seems to have a date every weekend. I’m lucky if I have one a year. “Where do you find these guys?”

“It’s not hard,” she says. “Just put down whatever boring medical textbook you’re reading, unbutton the top three buttons of your shirt, walk out onto the sidewalk, stick your tits in the air, and wait. It’s like fishing, really. Throw the bait out there and wait for the fish to nibble.”

“That’s so romantic,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

“It’s more romantic than watching Netflix every night by yourself. Gotta go. My salad is ready.”

“Enjoy your fries, I mean salad,” I say with a grin before hanging up. I walk out of the closet and find my resident waiting at the door of my office.

“Here’s some medicine for the doctor,” Ralph says as he hands me a foam cup of coffee.

It’s cold, weak, and tastes like someone used it as an ashtray—Cherry Valley Hospital’s finest brew. But I still drink it. I wouldn’t be able to get through my grueling twelve-hour shifts without it. Especially when those grueling shifts start at ten P.M. like the one tonight.

“Thanks, Ralph,” I say between sips. “Let’s get started. What do we have first?”

My resident-in-training pulls the clipboard out from under his arm and frowns as he looks it over. His long shaggy brown hair falls over his furrowed brow whenever he concentrates. I’d like to prescribe this kid a haircut.

I’m already moving down the hall as he struggles to keep up while still looking over the notes.

“Walter is still here,” he says as he narrowly avoids the garbage can. “The day shifters still haven’t diagnosed him. I suggest we take more blood and—”

“Who?” I ask, skidding to a stop.

“Walter,” he says, furrowing his brow as he looks at me in confusion. “The accountant. The big guy with the bushy mustache.”

“Oh,” I say with a quick shake of my head before I start walking again. “You mean Mr. Thatcher.”

“Sorry,” he mutters when he catches up to me. “I thought you knew his first name.”

“I don’t want to know anything but the patient’s last name and medical condition,” I say as we pass the elevators.

“How come?” Ralph asks. “Wouldn’t it be better if—”

“Look,” I say, interrupting him as I spin around. “Never get close with a patient. Never get personal. Never get attached. When you’re in this building, it should only be about medicine.”

He brushes the long hair out of his eyes, and I get a strong urge to grab the nearest scalpel and do some surgery on his bangs.

“But maybe you could help the patients more if you open up a little,” he says with the wide innocent eyes of a resident-in-training. He hasn’t been through what I’ve been through. He doesn’t know what I know. He doesn’t know how hard this place can be.

He doesn’t know the kind of devastation that can result from bringing your personal feelings onto the job. I know. And I’m never going to put myself in that kind of position again.

“Maybe if we get to know them we can use that information to help them better,” Ralph continues, sounding so childlike, so naive. He reminds me of me when I started. “Love and compassion can heal too. Isn’t love the best medicine?”

I step in close, locking my battle-hardened eyes on him. “Medicine is the best medicine.”

My pudgy sidekick takes a defeated breath and drops his eyes to the floor.

I rest a hand on his shoulder. He’s still young and thinks he knows it all, but after he loses a few, he’ll be singing a different tune.

“Just keep any emotions inside here,” I say tapping his chest, “until after your shift. Keep all that love for Lacey and the new pups.”

He looks up at me and nods.

“How’s that going?” I ask as we continue walking. The stray Labrador that Ralph’s roommate brought home had been pregnant, and she recently gave birth. On his living room carpet.

“How do you think it’s going?” he asks with a shake of his head. “I have nine puppies pissing, shitting, chewing, and drooling in my little apartment. Do you want one? They’re really cute.”

“Yeah,” I say with a laugh. “They sound adorable. But I’ll pass.”

I step into Mr. Thatcher’s room with Ralph on my heels. He’s lying in the hospital bed, gazing down at the picture frame in his hands. I try to keep my eyes off it, but I see that it’s a young pretty girl. Probably his daughter.

The room smells like fresh flowers from the arrangement beside him, mixed with the sterilizing smell of bleach.

“Hello, Mr. Thatcher,” I say as his heart monitor beeps steadily in the background.

“Good evening, Dr. Mendes,” he says, placing the picture frame on the nightstand beside him. I keep my eyes off it. I don’t want to know anything but his symptoms. His face breaks out into a wide smile when he sees Ralph behind me.

“Did you finish it?” Mr. Thatcher asks as Ralph walks past me and sits on his bed. “I’ve been dying to find out.” My resident grabs the patient’s hand in his and smiles.

Ralph shakes his head as I watch with confusion. “One chapter to go.”

“Promise me you’ll let me read it when you’re done,” Mr. Thatcher says.

“You’ll be the first one I give it to. I promise. Hopefully, you’ll be out of here by then and you can read it in your favorite chair.”

Walter smiles. “As long as I’m out before my daughter’s wedding, I’ll be happy.”

I force out a cough, and they both look up at me.

“I’m writing a Sci-Fi book,” Ralph says with a nervous grin. “Walter helped me with some ideas for the end.”

I resist the urge to shake my head as I grab the clipboard at the foot of the patient’s bed.

“Still having abdominal pains, Mr. Thatcher?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Has the severity of them increased? Pain-wise?”

“No. They’re just as bad as before.”

I tap my pen on the clipboard as I look it over. This guy’s case is a hard one to crack. Abdominal pains. Kidney damage. High blood pressure.

“Dr. Preston,” I say, nodding to Ralph. “Take some blood from Mr. Thatcher. I want to run some more tests.”

Ralph smiles at the patient as he gets up. “Maybe I’ll rename the villain after you,” he says with a laugh.

“Nah,” Mr. Thatcher says with a shake of his head. “I like Doctor Mendestra better.”

I follow Ralph out into the hall, grabbing his arm as he hurries away. “Doctor Mendestra?” I ask him with my eyebrows raised.

He smiles nervously. “She’s an evil alien from planet Turkot.”

“It sounds suspiciously close to my name,” I say, pulling him closer as I narrow my eyes on him. “Doctor Mendes?”

He cringes. “Coincidence?”

“Sounds like a Freudian slip to me,” I say, squeezing my grip on him.

I let him go and take a deep breath. “Ralph,” I say, softening my voice. “This is what I was talking about. You get too close to the patients. What if he dies tonight? Or tomorrow?”

“Or what if knowing that his doctor cares keeps him alive for an extra night?” Ralph turns and hurries away to get the syringe before I can respond.

A small part of me envies his wide-eyed optimism, but a larger part of me wants to call him an idiot. He should keep his feelings to himself and let the medicine do its job.

My thigh buzzes and I pull out my phone. It’s a text from Anabelle with a picture of Alf. In a few years, guys who look like this are going to be your only prospects. Get ‘em while you’re still hot!

I roll my eyes as I slide my phone into my pocket, grab my now stone-cold coffee, and continue down the hall to finish my rounds. But Anabelle’s words keep lingering in my head. I do have to do something. I have to be proactive. I can’t stand here thinking that Mr. Right is just going to bump into me.

“Ow,” I shout as a stretcher slams into my ass, making me spill my cold coffee all over my shirt.

“Sorry,” one of the ambulance drivers says as he rushes past me. There’s a man lying on the stretcher groaning. Tim, the ambulance driver, looks back over his shoulder as he rushes down the hallway. “Coming, Dr. Mendes?”

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh as I squeeze the excess coffee out of my shirt. “I’m just redesigning my outfit first.”

“Well, make it quick,” he says when he stops at the elevators. “We have a hot one here.”

My mouth drops when I hurry over and take a closer look at him.

“You got that right,” I mumble under my breath. He’s definitely a hot one.

Gorgeous, in fact. Even with the black eye and dried blood on his face, he’s gorgeous. His dark hair is matted with blood and dirt, but strangely it suits him.

My eyes wander down his shirtless body, looking for injuries, but all I can see is a massive chest, shredded abs, sculpted tattooed arms, and colorful motocross pants.

He’s perfect. I have to save him. I have an obligation to the human race to save this guy. He’s too beautiful to have his DNA eliminated from the species. He has to reproduce.

For the sake of all humanity.

“What happened to him?” I ask Tim as the elevator bings open and we push him inside.

“Dirt bike injury,” he says as I press my stethoscope to his hard chest. “He was competing in the Motocross Championship and wasn’t wearing his seatbelt.”

I stare at the patient’s face as I listen to his heart. The rate is fast. Just like mine.

“We’ll get you fixed up, Mr. Right,” I whisper to him only loud enough for him to hear.

He opens his green eyes a crack, and looks up at me through the glossiness. His mouth curls up into a weak smile.

The moment is over too soon. The elevator door bings open, and we rush him out to the ER.

It’s time to get to work.