medicine {h.s.}

CHAPTER ONE

"Starting today," the infamous Raven Vargas says, spreading her hands wide, in a gesture suggesting that today is some sort of tangible object—something right here in the room with us, "is the rest of your life."

The words—recognizably over-dramatic as they are—inspire a hush amongst the crowd of twenty interns gathered in the cafeteria area of Seattle Medical Center. A redeemed hospital, Seattle Medical Center is one of the most enviable programs for intern year. Dare I say: one of the most enviable programs in the country. Chief amongst the hype: Raven Vargas. Alone, she is a fine surgeon. Here, at this hospital, she is even the chief of general surgery. But, her fame stems not from her accomplishments in that field. Instead, her name is on the map as a result of her ability to take interns—any and all—and form them into some of the best, most accomplished surgeons in the world. Raven Vargas has put names on the map. Raven Vargas has put Seattle Medical Center on the map.

Her long, blonde box braids are swept to the left and tumble down her shoulder. Makeup is minimal—a power move, reaffirming the notion that women don't have to make themselves aesthetically pleasing to be successful—and her outfit is impeccable. Simple: a black pencil skirt and a white blouse, she looks most professional as she stands at the podium in front of us all.

Beside her, James Bell-Moore. One of the youngest chiefs of surgery in the area, he is also one of the most appealing aspects of Seattle Medical Center. "Look around," Chief Bell-Moore, a hyphenated last name as a result of his choice to combine his and his wife's names, says whilst sweeping his hands around the area. Instinctively, the crowd of twenty nervous interns looks around. Food is the first things to catch my eye—naturally, as it had been over sixteen hours since I ate last. Moving is more difficult than I had remembered it to be. But, I have a feeling that was not the point. I the take time to study the interns around me. Mousy looking things, I think to myself, smugly. Technically, I am in no better spot than them. I have had no more training than any of them in the field. Yet, I can't ignore the feeling that I am prepared for this. Years and years of fending for myself taught me how to be self-sufficient and dependent in more ways than I can count. "These people are your family, now. But—"

"But," Vargas interjects, giving him a pointed, unimpressed look, "they are also your competition. You're not in this business to make friends. You're in this to save lives. To change lives. Plural. As in, not your own, singular being." Vargas speaks with an urbanized accent. Every word comes out of her mouth tripping over the next; giving the impression that—even now—she is in a hurry. I suppose when you are one of the most in-demand general surgeons on the west coast, you can no longer afford the luxury of long, thoughtful sentences. Less than that, there is no need for the formality of feigned politeness. Bluntness, I've learned, is an earned right.

Chief Bell-Moore nods his head thoughtfully, seeming to agree with her. "Intern year is laborious. No one in this building will be envious of you. You will be doing scut work and you will have nothing else to say about it. You will be on call every second night. You will be working your ass off so hard that your home will be in this hospital. And you will not complain."

Vargas' head bobs up and down alongside his words, "when you are paged, you come. You do as you are told. Your life," she bounces on her heels, seeming to get excited by this part, "your life is mine—ours—now. Get used to it." Her fingers swirl in a motion between herself and Chief Bell-Moore, a seeming indicator of our lives belonging to them and this hospital. Smirking, she steps aside for Chief Bell-Moore to offer any of his last thoughts, before quickly inserting, "enjoy your last day of freedom."

Tamer than her, Chief Bell-Moore wears something of a genuine smile. Pissing off either of them would be a bad idea. I know that. But, already I am under the impression that if I were to piss one of them off, I'd be luckier to be punished by the Chief. Less intense than her, he seems infinitely more relaxed. "And," Bell-Moore adds loudly, waving his hands to demand attention once more. The chattering crowd of interns quickly quiets down to listen to him, expectantly, "mingle! Enjoy the food."