Thank you for reading this story. I am so honored to have this book win a Wattys Award for New Adult.
This book is complete.
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THE THIRD YEAR of medical school is said to account for the highest percentage of drop-outs, but I couldn't have prepared for that year no matter how hard I studied. The greatest lessons I learned had very little to do with science and everything to do with coincidence wrestling with faith.
When Everly Anne entered room 221 of Weill Cornell, one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country, a shift occurred in the paradigm of many lives. At first, her influence bled slow, affecting negligible parts of human composition such as remaining calm in unsure circumstances.
"Do you think we're finally performing an autopsy?" the guy in the next seat over asked.
"We did one last year," I reminded him. "Cats, remember?"
"Yeah, but I picked Cornell because not only do they allow cadaver dissection, but they actually encourage us to perform them. It has to be a human—too much buzz this morning for it not to be human."
I looked at him. He was a stump with boxy shoulders, his white coat too tight. Head like a block. Bug-eyed, with brown hair combed slickly to his scalp. "You seem way too excited about this possibility."
I prayed it was not cadaver dissection.
He looked even creepier when he laughed. "If the human body turns you off, maybe you should reconsider your profession, Trovatto."
"How do you know my name?" In a sea of a hundred other students, I certainly didn't remember his.
"Everyone knows your name. Well, your father's name."
True enough—once upon a time, Andrew Trovatto was a force to be reckoned with in the medical world.
I could tell this guy knew that truth as we stared at each other.
If only it were possible to burn holes through someone by looking at them long enough.
His face brightened as he turned toward the sound of the door closing. "Oh, sweet Jesus."
As soon as she sat in front of the class, the room fell silent, only to quickly ignite with hushed speculation—rightfully so—as our attending, Dr. Timothy Brighton, wasn't a man who entertained theatrics, much less provided them. Presenting Everly Anne as the center of attention, unexpected with her bright flame of peach-colored hair and a blank patient board, was bound to provoke theoretical drama.
I couldn't see her face. She never once looked up. That didn't seem to bother the guy next to me, as he leaned over and snickered, "Now there's a body I wouldn't mind examining."
My eyes stayed on the girl. "Keep shit-talking during class and Brighton will be serving you up as the autopsy."
Dr. Brighton stood behind her as he spoke to the class. "I won't be telling you anything about our patient for this differential. Each of you will have five minutes with her every day until the end of the semester—which conveniently is exactly the amount of time you have to diagnose her before she dies. I emailed a patient log you all must follow. I will be grading this log, in addition to a final group differential, so I expect impeccable notes."
