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It’stwo a.m. on a Thursday night. And I’m at the library.

I got here a little late because I had to finally do my laundry. Buying new underwear was getting old. There was so much laundry, I had to use every available washer to get it done. I really hate doing laundry. The second I get married, I am done doing laundry.

Sasha is sitting across the table from me. She’s going through some flashcards she made for biochem. I watch her biting her lip as she tucks her short dark hair behind her tiny ear. That girl is dedicated, all right—it’s so sexy.

Sasha must have sensed me looking at her because she glances up expectantly. I’m going to brag here: we’ve had sex maybe a couple of dozen times now. We do it either in the locker room or the med student lounge. The lounge is more comfortable because it’s got a couch, but the risk of getting caught is higher, so we usually just go to the locker room.

We’ve got a whole system going—if we’re up for it, we tap a yellow highlighter on the table five times. I’ve initiated more than she has, but she’s done her fair share of highlighter tapping. It’s gotten so that every time someone taps their pen in class, I start to get excited.

The sex is usually fast. It’s a little embarrassing, to be honest, but Sasha hasn’t called me on it yet. Anyway, it’s good—really, really good. The truth is, I think about Sasha a lot. All the damn time. Right now, I’m trying to focus on the cranial nerves, but I keep looking up at her instead. I wonder if she’s up for a study break.

Sasha cranes her neck to look at the textbook I’m reading, which is Dr. Conlon’s book. She crinkles her nose.

“You highlight a lot,” she comments.

“Yeah. So?”

“You highlighted every sentence on that page,” she points out.

I glance down at the page in front of me.

“Not every sentence,” I protest.

“There is literally one sentence that you didn’t highlight,” she says.

Okay, fine. She’s right.

“Highlighting helps me focus,” I say.

I have five different colors of highlighters, which I use for different levels of importance of the information on the page. Yellow is the critical stuff.

Sasha closes her textbook and yawns. I sneak a glance at her own highlighter, hoping for a few taps signaling she’s in the mood. But no luck. Damn. I guess I’m going to have to go at it alone when I get home.

“Leaving?” I ask her.

She rubs her eyes. “Maybe I’ll put in another hour with Frank.”

That’s one other thing I like about Sasha. She isn’t scared to be in the anatomy lab alone at midnight.

“Hey, Mason,” she says. “You ever get curious about Frank?”

“Yeah, sure,” I admit.

In the last two months, I have probably spent more time with Frank than any other person in my life. It seems strange that I know nothing about the man, other than that he might have been a cop. Not even his real name.

“I wonder how he died,” Sasha says thoughtfully. “Almost everyone else knows how their cadaver died, but I just can’t figure it out with Frank. He’s got a great heart, perfect lungs, perfect kidneys, no liver cirrhosis…”

That’s been bothering me too. Frank is in mint condition. I’m no pathologist (and never will be… ugh), but usually, there are at least some signs that an organ is failing. Hearts often become enlarged when they’re struggling, lungs turn black, livers grow firm. But Frank has none of those problems. His death is a complete mystery.

I wonder if we’ll ever find out how he died.

When I get homethat night, I find Abe sitting on the futon, clicking through the late-night television channels. Abe’s eyes are bloodshot, and he looks awful. He barely glances at me as I walk in.

“Hey, Hulk,” I greet him. “Where’s Heather?”

I’ve gotten used to the sight of them snuggled up on our futon. It almost doesn’t make me want to vomit anymore.

“Heather is going to leave me,” Abe says in a flat voice.

So much for sleep. I drop my books on the floor and push aside some dirty white tube socks to sit down next to Abe. We’re both slobs. “What happened?”

“I should never have been with her in the first place,” Abe mutters. “I mean, she’s way out of my league…”

Abe either has the worst self-esteem ever or else he’s looking at Heather through a pair of eternal beer goggles. She’s not that hot, seriously. And Abe’s a really good guy. He’s easygoing, smart, affable, and even sometimes makes an effort to clean our bathroom, especially when Heather is around. He gets good grades, too, even though he’s splitting his time, working at some student health clinic two nights a week. And I don’t think he’s awful looking or anything, not that I can judge that kind of thing. I’ve got to make him see there are other possibilities.

“Cheer up,” I say. “In less than two years, we’ll be working in the hospital, and you’ll have more cute nurses flirting with you than you’ll know what to do with.”

Abe is barely listening. He stares ahead at the television, his eyes unfocused.

“I’m going to keep her,” he says. “No matter what I have to do, I’m not going to let her get away.”

“Okay…” There’s a disturbing desperation in Abe’s voice. No matter what I have to do. What the hell does that mean? “Look, you should get some sleep.”

“Can’t,” Abe mutters, changing the channel absently. On the nature channel, a lion is ripping apart a young zebra. Okay then.

If there is one thing I’m not, it’s a future psychiatrist. Abe’s problems are his own. Whatever misguided shit Abe intends to do on Heather’s behalf, that’s his business. I have too much of my own work to do.