Page 25 of No Way Home
It was a colored sketch—soft strokes and warm shades that made the scene feel almost alive—of a woman in a crisp doctor’s coat, stethoscope looped around her neck, speaking to a patient who was half-laughing, half-crying.
It knocked the wind out of me because the doctor was…me. Or some version of me—older, surer, radiant in a way I couldn’t imagine I’d ever be. And gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Like, if I ever looked like that, I’d never stop taking selfies.
Was this AI?
I tilted the drawing side to side, trying to catch the details in the light of the street lamp. No. This was legit. Not printed on a printer even. It was hand-drawn with what looked likewatercolor pencils. If that was even a thing. Someone had taken their time drawing this.
For me.
I cradled it gently, my chest tightening in a good way. This could not have come at a more opportune time. Actually, it was downright serendipitous.
Butwhoknew that I needed this today, of all days? None of my friends could draw. Not like this anyway. Whoever it was, they knew where I’d parked. Which, I realized, was kind of creepy.
I got in my car and locked the door, but I didn’t turn the key. I stared at the picture, taking in the details. It didn’t feel creepy. It felt kind and generous. Like a blessing.
This sketch was the reminder that I needed.
Yes, undergrad was brutal. Med school would be worse. But I could do this. It might take some actual blood, sweat, and a river of tears. It might even demand some creative finagling. But I’d been doing hard things my whole life.
I propped the picture up on my dashboard, dug through my purse, and found my phone. Then I created a group chat with every friend I knew who had probably failed that test—which was everyone but Kevin.
We can’t go down like this. And we won’t. I have a plan. But we need to pool our resources. So get ready to cough up that leftover FAFSA money, dig through the seats of your car, or go donate plasma, because friends? We’re hiring a study coach.
I didn’t wait for their responses, though I instantly saw bubbles wiggling. Because I had one more text to send.
Kevin, I know you don’t like study groups. But I know you LOVE . I have a proposition for you.
That was the beginning of Maggie and Friends pulling A’s on every assignment and test in Organic Chemistry II, and the end of feeling hopeless and helpless.
But it wasn’t the end of the sketches.
It was just the beginning.
Chapter Eight
MAGNOLIA
SENIOR YEAR OF UNDERGRAD
My wipers were workingovertime to clear the windshield but it was almost impossible to see through the sleet that wouldn’t stop falling.
“Maggie, both hands on the wheel,” Dad’s worried voice barked on the other end of the phone.
“Okay. Hold on.” I set my cell on the passenger seat. “You’re on speakerphone now.”
“Turn around and head back to your apartment,” he ordered. “You have no business being on the road in a Mini Cooper.”
“Dad, I have to finish my shadowing hours today.”
“Absolutely not. They’re not going to open anyway. Everything will be closed.”
Normally, I’d agree with him. In Virginia, if it so much as smells like snow, the schools shut down and the entire state turns into a zombie town—empty streets, blinking traffic lights, not a soul in sight. And forget the grocery store. The bread aisle will be ransacked and the milk section wiped out like it’s the end of days. But…
“You don’t know Doctor Hunsaker,” I said. “He closes for nothing and no one.”
“I don’t give a crap about Doctor Hunsaker, who’s obviously a…” His voice cut out. I was about to hit the stretch of road between Charlottesville and Scottsville that had no cell service. “No one’s going to see the doctor today.”
Dad wasn’t wrong. No human with any sense would leave their house to see a doctor in this weather. Unless they were on the verge of dying, but Hunsaker would open even if he was in the middle of having a stroke. It’s just who he was.
