The surgical department's meeting room had been designed for quiet discussions and orderly presentations. This morning, it looked more like a pressure cooker.
A dozen interns had crammed themselves inside — some standing for lack of chairs, others perched on the edges of tables with the restless energy of people who have just received bad news and haven't yet decided how to digest it. The email had arrived the previous evening for most of them:
Immediate transfer to Doctor ChristopherAshton's surgical department, starting the following morning, no questions had been solicited.
Jacob had known for forty-eight hours. One of his contacts had tipped him off in advance, with that particular tone of people who relay information while knowing full well it won't be well received. He had arrived early, settled into the most inconspicuous corner of the room, and was observing his new colleagues with the quiet resignation of a man who has already finished grieving.
They were loud. All of them.
Eighteen degrees in the room — the ideal temperature for quality sleep. The irony was merciless.
—They didn't even ask for our consent, fumed Léo Moore, a former ophthalmology intern with permanently furrowed brows. A last-minute change like this is simply unacceptable.
—Absolutely, agreed Déborah Beckwell from the other end of the table, arms crossed over her physiotherapy scrubs. And this doctor is known for being insufferable. Personally, I'd rather go back to rheumatology with Professor Smith. At least he knows the word thank you.
—Exactly. I'm seriously considering filing a transfer request this afternoon.
—Oh, give it a rest.
Dave Brownson's voice cut cleanly through the noise. Tall, composed, with that natural authority he had never tried to cultivate and which imposed itself regardless, he half-rose from his chair and swept the room with his gaze.
—You should feel grateful to have been selected. Everyone knows Ashton doesn't take just anyone. Yes, he has a difficult temperament. He's not the only one in this hospital, and you know that as well as I do. So instead of complaining about an opportunity half your former colleagues would envy you for, you could-
—That will do.
The silence fell like a hammer.
Ashton stood in the doorway. Nobody had heard him arrive, which, given the noise level a minute ago, was a performance in itself.
He entered without hurrying, let the door close behind him, and stopped at the center of the room with that particular way he had of occupying space,not aggressive, not calculated, just absolutely natural, as if the room had always been organized around him and the furniture had only just noticed.
His gaze moved across the assembly. Slow. Methodical.
—I don't know exactly what you were discussing before I arrived, he said, his voice level. But when criticizing someone, the bare minimum of prudence would suggest first making sure they're not somewhere nearby.
A pause.
— Wouldn't you say, Moore? Beckwell?
Léo and Déborah flinched simultaneously at the sound of their names, the kind of involuntary flinch that betrays a guilty conscience long before the mouth has had time to formulate a defense. Several of their colleagues suddenly developed a suspicious architectural interest in the ceiling.
Jacob, in his corner, made a mental note that the doctor had sharp ears.
Ashton moved to stand in front of the projection screen without granting the incident any more importance than necessary, which was, in its own way, more unsettling than if he'd made a scene.
—Good. Here is how things will work in this department.
He brought up a table on the screen, crossed his arms, and surveyed the assembly with a gaze that contained neither warmth nor hostility, just a very precise expectation.
—Punctuality is not a virtue in this department. It is a prerequisite. Staff rounds begin at seven o'clock. Not seven-oh-five because you missed your bus. Not seven-oh-two because the elevator was full.
He looked coldly across the room. He had already seen through every excuse they might offer.
—Seven o'clock. If you are incapable of managing an alarm clock, I would suggest considering a specialty where patients can wait for you. Cosmetic dermatology, for instance. Wrinkles rarely press.
One or two suppressed smiles in the room.
—Furthermore, he added, I have personally never witnessed someone arriving late on the very first day. That would be a rather memorable way to begin.
He let the sentence settle.
BANG.
The door flew open with a force that made half the room jump. It bounced off the wall and swung back halfway, revealing in its frame a silhouette bent double, hands on knees, visibly attempting to reconcile its lungs with the rest of its body.
—Hah... hah...
Every gaze converged on the newcomer. Hair disheveled, scrub top half-buttoned, face a shade of red not generally associated with good health.
Tae-Hee looked up at the room with the expression of someone who realizes, too late, the precise magnitude of the situation they have just hurled themselves into.
—I... ran... from the lobby, he managed between breaths.
An intern checked their watch.
—The lobby is thirty meters away.
—Exactly, wheezed Tae-Hee. I ran... very fast.
A few smothered laughs. Dave, at the back, was studying the ceiling with the expression of a long-suffering martyr.
Ashton considered the scene for a moment. His grey eyes moved from the disheveled hair to the crooked scrub top, pausing on the grey streak on the sleeve — a souvenir from chapter three — with the patience of a man conducting an inventory.
—The universe, he said at last, has chosen to test my word in a remarkably short timeframe.
— Can I still be considered punctual if my soul was here on time? asked Tae-Hee between breaths.
This time, half the room abandoned any pretense of composure.
Ashton looked at him for another second — that unreadable look that could just as easily precede an icy reprimand as complete silence — then said simply:
—Come in, Jong. And sit down before you cause your first clinical case of the day.
—Thank you, Doctor.
—Don't thank me. Be on time tomorrow.
Tae-Hee entered, still slightly winded, and swept the room with his gaze. Dave gave him a sideways smile from his chair — the kind of smile that says you never change. Tae-Hee's cheeks went crimson.
The only free seat was next to Jacob.
What is he doing here? He's a professional no-show! Tae-Hee screamed internally.
Tae-Hee approached it with the caution of a man not entirely sure what he'll find when he sits down. Jacob didn't look up. He murmured, eyes on his sheet:
— Even I'm wondering what I'm doing here.
Tae-Hee sat down without answering. It was the most honest response he could give.
Ashton concluded his presentation in a few more minutes — concise, without unnecessary repetition, with the efficiency of someone whose time has a value he has never had to explain to anyone — then gathered his notes and left the room without ceremony.
Everyone rose in his wake.
Tae-Hee, who had only just leaned his back against his chair, took a second to understand what was happening. He stood back up on the reserves of a man running on emergency power.
A chuckle beside him.
Dave handed him a handkerchief — for what purpose, Tae-Hee couldn't have said, but he took it anyway — and extended his other hand to help him up.
—Come on, champ. Before we get told off.
They left at the tail of the group, slightly behind the others. Jacob, a few paces ahead, glanced back over his shoulder.
He didn't try to put a name to what he saw.
They're not even hiding it anymore, he thought, and turned back toward the corridor.