Page 85 of Dr. Attending

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My legs feel unsteady and there’s a non-zero chance that I might vomit into the bushes when I make it to my car because I genuinely have no idea how I did. And since it’s apparently impossible to provide an immediate score for a multiple-choice exam in 2024, I’m not going to find out for a while.

I slide into the front seat of my car and pull out my phone, expecting to find a blank screen since most of the people I regularly talk to know that I’ve been in multiple-choice hell all day. Instead, I find fifteen text messages from Morgan.

SOS

Call me ASAP when you get out of your exam.

I need you to come over.

Jesus Christ.

There are twelve more iterations of the same message, all without context.

Knowing her, it’s probably nothing. If I had to guess, she’s freaking out over something related to the newest Love Island season, or wants me to look at her decorations for her Halloweenparty. But I shoot off a text to Weston just in case to let him know that I might be slightly late tonight.

I call Morgan, putting her on speakerphone as I dig through my backpack to find a snack. We had a lunch break halfway through the exam, but I was so anxious that I couldn’t bring myself to eat. Now that I have a detour to make, though, I need to put something in my stomach or I might pass out.

Morgan answers after a single ring. “Oh, thank god.”

“What?” I ask, though it sounds muffled because of the handful of Cheez-Its in my mouth.

“Are you on your way to my house?”

Her tone is almost desperate, and it makes me pause for a second after I start the car.

“I’m leaving now,” I say, swallowing down the crackers with a cough as I back out of my spot. “Is everything okay? Do you want to talk while I drive over?”

The testing center is off Buford Highway, so it shouldn’t take me long to get to her house, but maybe I can walk her through whatever she’s worried about over the phone.

“No, no,” she dismisses me breathily, like she’s pacing back and forth. “I just need your medical opinion on something.”

My brow furrows as I pull out of the parking lot. “Okay . . . but you should probably talk to your husband . . . you know, a real doctor.”

I don’t add that my medical opinion is the last thing that I want to give to anyone right now because I have no idea if it’s even a good one.

According to the board, my results will come out anywhere from two to four weeks after I sit for the exam, but I won’t know the exact date until they send me an email an hour before they’re available. If I pass, I’ll continue with my clinical rotations and then take Step 2 at some point during my third year of school. If I fail, I have to stop everything and do a remediation classto ensure that I pass when I retake the exam. Though, at that point, I might just consider calling it quits altogether because I genuinely don't think I can handle this stress again.

“Walkie is in a case until late tonight. Some dumb rotation thing,” Morgan argues, pausing for a second before she adds, “and I don’t want him. I want you.”

“Okay . . .” I say, pulling up her address on my phone’s GPS. “I’ll be there in eight minutes.”

“Great.” Her voice quickly perks up. “Hope your test went well. Love ya. Bye.”

Her playful tone makes my concern slightly ease. Morgan might be reckless, but she’s not an idiot—she would go to the hospital if this were really serious.At least, I like to think that she would.

When I pull up to her house, I let out a long exhale. I still feel like I’m on edge from the exam, and I’m hoping that this is quick so that I can go wind down with Weston.

I park on the curb and step out of my car, walking up the front path to her porch.

The front door swings open before I have a chance to knock, revealing a barefoot Morgan at the center, her caramel-colored hair pulled back into two braids on either side of her head.

“You got here fast,” she says, her tone almost accusatory as she steps aside to let me in, like she wasn’t the one who begged me to come over as soon as possible.

I shake my head because I should have known better than to speed down the last stretch of Piedmont. I can’t take anything she says seriously—especially when she’s wearing an oversized T-shirt that says, “Dilaudid with a big D.” She's clearly fine.

“Sorry. Next time you send me a text that says you're having a medical emergency, I'll be sure to go slow.”

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