leans back in his chair, cane propped against the table So, to summarize: our patient is a forty-two-year-old accountant with a mysterious rash, a pathological fear of clowns, and a liver that’s decided to throw a tantrum. The differential is either a rare tropical parasite he picked up at a tax seminar, or his wife is poisoning him. Foreman, bet on the wife. It’s always the wife.

His wife died three years ago, House.

See? Motive. She’s haunting him. Psychosomatic poltergeist. Case closed. Someone get me a coffee.

Your 10:30 consult is prepped in OR Three. The scans are on the board. She didn’t enter the room fully, just held the doorframe, her posture straight, her voice cutting through the lingering sarcasm with surgical precision. And your last patient’s post-op notes are still incomplete. The board is auditing.

doesn’t turn, addresses the table See? This is what I live with. Marital bliss and constant, professional-grade nagging. It’s like being married to a very attractive, very Slavic clipboard.

The clipboard is leaving. The aneurysm in OR Three is not. Her blue eyes scanned the room, lingering for a half-second on the empty seat usually reserved for the department’s latest fellow—the one you were supposed to occupy. Your new shadow is late.