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“Lookto your left and look to your right. In four years, both of these people will be doctors.”

Following the instructions of the dean of the medical school, I look to my left, coming face-to-face with a maroon-painted wall. I blink a few times then turn to my right, where there is an empty seat. And next to that empty seat is my roommate, Mason, who looks like he has completely lost respect for me now that I’m playing along with the dean.

I can’t blame him.

I’m about to redirect my attention back to the dean when something catches my eye. Or should I say, someone. Her.

The girl I’m going to marry.

Okay, you’re rolling your eyes right now. I don’t blame you. I get it—I sound like a tool saying that. My friends from college would kick my ass. But when you know, you know. And right now, I know.

I’m not what you’d call a ladies’ man. I’m not a romantic either. But right now, I can practically hear harps playing in the background. I’d do anything for her. I’d do anything to get her.

For most of the rest of the morning, I can’t quit staring at her. I try not to be too obvious about it, but sheesh. I’ve got it bad.

And then at lunch, I manage to step on her toes with my big clumsy foot. And I find out her name is Heather. And she has a boyfriend.

But who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky.

Stranger things have happened.

I need a job.

Some of the other students here are loaded. Mason, for example. I”m not loaded. My parents both work blue-collar jobs, and I took out so much money in loans that if I start to think about it too much, I want to throw up.

That’s why during my first week of classes, I start searching for a part-time job. Something with pretty flexible hours and hopefully decent pay. When I see an ad on the bulletin board outside the anatomy lab for part-time work at a medical clinic, it seems perfect.

Until I get there.

First of all, it’s in a terrible part of town. If I wasn’t me, I’d be scared to walk around this neighborhood. And Dr. Stanley Kovak’s clinic is a dive. That’s really the only word for it—well, the nicest word I can think of, anyway. His waiting room is a tiny area, barely bigger than a closet, with three folding chairs pushed up against a wall, peeling white paint, and one dim light bulb that dangles precariously from the ceiling. The entire place smells like a urinal.

But the pay? It’s really good. Way better than McDonald’s. So I stick around for the interview.

There’s no receptionist to be seen, so I take a seat on one of the folding chairs, which creaks ominously under my weight. I had been “buzzed” in, so I assume that Dr. Kovak knows I’m here. There are no magazines to read in the waiting room, but it seems like the people who come to a clinic like this aren’t that excited to be thumbing through a copy of Good Housekeeping.

After several minutes, the door to the back opens, and a man sticks his head out. “Abraham Kaufman?”

“Abe,” I say, rising to my feet.

His eyes widen slightly at my size, which isn’t an entirely unusual reaction.

“Come on in,” the man says. “I’m Stan Kovak.”

Dr. Kovak is at least half a foot shorter than me with very close-cropped gray hair on his head, fine lines on his tanned skin, and two days’ worth of stubble on his chin. He’s wearing rumpled blue scrubs that look like he slept in them. He herds me down a short, poorly lit hallway to a room with what appears to be a long stretcher in it. There’s a sheet on the stretcher, which is covered in brown stains. Thankfully, he doesn’t tell me to sit on it.

“So you’re applying for the job?” he asks me.

“That’s right,” I say. I hand him a folder, containing references from former jobs I’ve held: working as a cashier at a grocery store, taking tickets at the movie theater, and working as a lifeguard for three summers.

Kovak takes the folder but simply lays it down on the counter without even flipping through it. “I desperately need help.” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “It can get very busy here, and my assistant just quit. You said you’re a medical student?”

“Yeah.”

“What year?”

“First.”

He nods in approval. “I get a lot of students from the school at the clinic. It’s a long wait for the student health center, so they like to come here instead. I need help checking them in, getting vital signs, scheduling appointments. It’ll be a good experience for you.”

“I’m sure it will be,” I say confidently, although something about this examining room makes me uneasy. What are those brown stains on the sheet? “I’d be thrilled to work here.”

“Great.” He folds his arms across his chest. “When can you start?”

“That’s it? I got the job?”

He cracks a smile. “You’re the only one to apply.”

Something about this revelation sets off a red flag in the back of my head. How could I be the only one to apply for such a lucrative job? It pays more than twice as much as what I made at the supermarket. Then again, if he wants a medical student, most of the kids in the class are too busy to work on top of everything. And I was really quick to apply. What’s that thing they say about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?

“I can start tomorrow,” I tell him.