I turn my attention back to Alyssa, who is now quiet. Finally she speaks again in a normal voice. "I know, he's shy on the phone," she says. "I know. Just tell him I'll be home tomorrow. Maybe I'll make it for lunch."

When she puts down the phone, her narrow lips are set in a straight line. The smart thing for me to do would have been to get the hell out, but I seem to be frozen in place. She whirls around and catches me standing there. "Jane!" she snaps at me. "What are you doing here?"

Wishing I were anywhere else. "Mrs. Vargas's urine tox came back," I say lamely. "It was negative."

She nods, as if this is the least interesting piece of news she'd heard all day. She doesn't apologize to me for saying I was wrong, that's for sure.

"By the way, Jane," she says. "I've been meaning to talk to you about your white coat."

I finger the stiff material of the coat covering my scrubs. It's a bit big and the sleeves come down nearly to the tip of my thumbs. "What about it?"

"Look at it!" Alyssa snaps at me.

I look at the coat. "Um..."

"Look how wrinkled it is!" she says. "I would say it's at an unacceptable level of wrinkles. Is this the level of professionalism you want to show?"

Is she kidding me? Am I supposed to be spending my time ironing my white coat? Seriously, it's not that wrinkled.

"And what's this?" Alyssa says, pointing at a faded yellow spot on my left sleeve, about a centimeter in diameter.

"I guess it's a stain," I admit.

Alyssa just shakes her head, as if she is too horribly disappointed for words. But what am I supposed to do? The hospital only provided me with two white coats. I can't launder them on a daily basis. Not when I'm also cleaning the bathroom every other day.

I just have to face the fact that no matter what I do, I can never live up to Alyssa's standards.

Hours awake: 13 Chance of quitting: 65%

Chapter 26.

Even in my dreams, I am working. You'd think I could take six or seven hours off from my job, but apparently I can't.

In my dream, I'm in the hospital, working up a new admission while Alyssa watches me. The patient has pain and I ask where the pain is. Everywhere, the patient tells me. I ask him to be more specific. Everywhere in my body, he clarifies. I try to write down his comment but I can't find my notes. Or a pen.

You have to be more prepared, Jane, Alyssa snaps at me. I apologize and start searching for a pen in my pockets, but just keep pulling out packets and packets of gauze while Alyssa continues to scream at me.

Unbelievable. Even in my dreams, I can't stand up to Alyssa and tell her what I really think of her.

I wake up from my post-call nap feeling completely disoriented as usual. I probably would have slept well into the evening, but I get woken up by my cell phone ringing. I grab for it, and mumble, "'Lo?"

A familiar voice says into the phone: "I can pick you up in one hour. Just name the restaurant."

It's Sexy Surgeon. I texted him my triumph in the urine tox, and he's ready to make good on his end of the bet: buying me dinner. Except I am so damn tired. "Oh," I say.

"I found at least five restaurants in New York that all have chairs and waiters," he says. "We can go wherever you want. Sky's the limit, babe."

I groan. "I'm so tired. I just want pizza."

"Jane, you are my kind of woman."

An hour later, Ryan and I are heading out to the nearest pizza joint. Even though this isn't exact how I pictured our romantic evening together, I have to admit, he made the effort. For one thing, he's not wearing scrubs. He's wearing a navy blue T-shirt and faded blue jeans, and I can tell he's showered and shaved recently. I can smell his aftershave and it's making me a little giddy.

Luckily, the closest pizza parlor is actually very good. I must be hungry because I can smell the oil and cheese halfway down the block, and my stomach rumbles. As we walk in, they're pulling a fresh pie out of the oven and the cheese is all hot and bubbly. I order two slices of cheese pizza at the counter and Ryan gets three. There are all sorts of crazy toppings on the pizzas, like one slice has ziti on it, but I feel like a really good pizza doesn't need anything but the pizza.

"You're a pizza snob, I bet," Ryan says to me as we settle into our seats. He slides his three paper plates of pizza onto the red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

"What does that mean?" (I actually know what he means. I am totally a pizza snob.) "You've got to have your pizza the classic New York-style, or else it won't do," he says. "Like you probably think Chicago deep dish is disgusting."

"Well," I say, "not disgusting, but... well..."

Ryan grins at me. "Pizza snob."

I huff at him and take a bite of my pizza, which is still piping hot from the oven. I can tell that I'm going to polish this off in like two minutes. I try to slow down for Ryan's sake.

"Where are you from?" he asks me. He takes a guess: "Brooklyn?"

"No, Queens."

Ryan lifts his hand in the air so I can high-five him. Which I do, mostly as an excuse to touch him.

"Why am I high-fiving you?" I ask.

He points to his chest. "I'm from Fresh Meadow."

"Jamaica," I say.

"Tell me," he says, "when you say that to most people, do they ask you how come you don't have a Caribbean accent?"

I laugh. "Yes!"

Ryan shakes his head. "People are so dumb."

I find out from Ryan that his father is a lawyer and his mother a teacher. He's got two siblings, an older brother and an older sister.

"My sister Maggie went the teacher route too," he says. "She's got two kids and lives in Long Island."

"How about your brother?" I ask.

Ryan hesitates. "Sean is... still figuring things out."

For some reason, I get the sense that Ryan is being kind of evasive when he talks about his family. I can't imagine why, because the Reillys seem pretty picture perfect compared to what I grew up with. He certainly has nothing to be ashamed of.

"By the way," Ryan says to me as he finishes off the crust of his first slice. "What can I do to make you smile a little more at work? Seriously, you walk around looking like someone just died."

I jut out my chin. "Maybe someone did just die."

"It's a hospital, Jane. Not a morgue."

"Well, sorry."

"Don't apologize," he says. "I just feel bad you're so unhappy."

"I am an intern," I point out. "Weren't you miserable as an intern?"

"No way." Ryan looks me in the eyes and I can tell he means it. "As long as I got to be in the OR, I was happy. I freakin' love operating."

"Goody for you."

"Come on," he says. "I know you're in Medicine and all, but you can't be unhappy all the time. I mean, why'd you go to med school in the first place?"

"To help people," I answer, almost automatically.

"Okay, liar," Ryan laughs. "I'm not the admissions committee, you know. You can be honest."

Can I? I study Ryan's face and decide to trust him. "My dad left my mom when I was little," I say. "She was broke my whole childhood, and... she didn't want that to happen to me."

Ryan is quiet for a minute. "If that's the reason you went to med school," he says, "no wonder you're miserable."

"Gee, thanks." I throw a crumbled up napkin at him and he ducks. "It's not entirely awful. I mean, I really do like helping people. I like knowing that the purpose of my job is to make sick people well. Most of the time it's just routine and following algorithms, but every once in a while, you get to really make a difference."

"You sound like you're in a pageant," he comments. He raises the pitch of his voice mockingly: "My name is Jane McGill and I want to make sick people well."

I throw a second napkin at him and this one hits him square in the chest, leaving behind a glob of tomato sauce. "Hey!" he protests.

"You're obnoxious."

Ryan grins. "You totally had that coming. Anyway, you know you love it."

Gah! I hate that I find him so sexy when he's been a complete jackass. And I hate it worse that he knows it.

After we finish off our pizza slices (and go back for seconds... thank God scrubs have drawstrings), Ryan insists on walking me home. When we get to my front door, he hesitates.

"Do you want to come in?" I offer. I tug playfully at the sleeve of his shirt. "I'll let you get to second base."

His eyes light up. "Yeah? I thought I lost that bet."

"We can call it a draw."

We fall into the apartment together, kissing and groping wildly at each other. Funny how I'm not tired at all anymore. And if Julia comes out and interrupts this, I swear to God I will murder her.

Chapter 27.

Short Call Going into short call, Connie has won the game.

"Winning the game" means she managed to discharge all her patients. I don't know how she does it. Maybe she has some magic tonic she feeds to everyone to get them well. Maybe if Mrs. Jefferson were her patient, she'd have grown her leg back by now.

Although I do end up getting some amazing news on arrival to the hospital. The social worker Robyn greets me on the floor and says to me, "Jane! I got visiting nursing services covered for Mrs. Jefferson!"

I can hardly believe my ears. "You didn't!"

"I did!" Robyn cries. I've worked with Robyn many times in the past month and she always seems a little jaded and dejected. But now her lined eyes are lit up. "It's all arranged!"

I stand there, savoring this information. I may actually get to discharge my rock star. Wow.

"That's wonderful," I say. "You're amazing, Robyn."

Robyn buffs her fingernails on her shirt. "Just in a day's work," she laughs. Then she adds, "The only snag is that she still needs IV antibiotics for her infection, right?"

I nod. "Three more weeks."

"Does she have a PICC line?"

A PICC line is a central line that is usually inserted for long term antibiotics, because it can stay in place longer than other kinds of lines. Mrs. Jefferson has been getting her antibiotics through an IV in her arm, but she definitely can't keep that at home.

"I'll arrange it," I promise.

County Hospital has a special nurse who inserts PICC lines. I've heard you have to sell your soul to get her to come insert one, but at this point, I'm willing to make the trade.

Mrs. Jefferson is even happier about her discharge than I am, which is probably appropriate since she's the one who's actually going home. When I walk into her room, she bursts into tears.

"I can't wait, Dr. Jane," she sniffles. "I just want to play with my grandkids again."

Each of her grandchildren has drawn her a card, and they're plastered on the walls around her room. By the backwards writing on the card, I'd guess none of them is much older than kindergarten age.

"I'm really happy for you," I tell her.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Jane," she says. "Thank you for everything you done for me. I'll never forget it."

"You're welcome," I say, even though I didn't actually do anything. Robyn is the real hero. I've just been a glorified babysitter.

_____.