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Maggie: That sounds like something a person with no student loans would say.

I clock out of the OR system and check the time. Too late to be useful to anyone outside the hospital. Too early to sleep if I want it to count. I still need to stop by ICU before leaving.

Marcus stands with me. “You heading up?”

“Yes.” I put the phone in my coat pocket and walk out.

Marcus follows.

ICU is colder than the rest of the hospital. Brighter too. A bad combination. My patient is where he should be, sedated, monitored, lines clean, pressure acceptable. I speak with the night intensivist, review the first set of numbers, and give instructions that do not require discussion.

The phone buzzes twice while I’m there.

I don’t check it until we’re outside the unit.

Maggie: Cords are where I lose the will to continue.

Maggie: Why are they named around the axillary artery like clingy relatives?

I type: Because anatomy is spatial. Lateral cord: anterior divisions of upper and middle trunks. Medial cord: anterior division of lower trunk. Posterior cord: posterior divisions of all three trunks.

A longer pause.

Then: Wait. That actually made sense.

I look at the message while the elevator takes me down to the parking level. The hospital signal flickers, then catches again. Cold air moves through my coat and finds the sweat still drying at the back of my shirt.

That actually made sense.

There are better compliments. More impressive ones, from conference podiums, journals, visiting surgeons, men with silver hair and soft voices who taught me how to hold a life in my hands without thinking about my hands at all. But this one makes my breath catch for a moment.

Fuck me.

Maggie: Wait, so lateral cord is anterior divisions of upper and middle trunks, medial is anterior division of lower trunk, and posterior is all the posterior divisions being dramatic together?

I stop beside my car.

That is not the wording I would choose.

It’s also correct.

Me: Yes.

Maggie: I hate that I needed the dramatic together part.

Me: Use what works.

Maggie: Dangerous educational philosophy, doctor.

I read it once, then unlock the car. The interior is cold. I sit behind the wheel and let the door close me inside. For a few seconds, there’s only the soft tick of cooling machinery somewhere in the garage and the faint tap of rainwater falling from the concrete seams above.

My hands are tired. The rest of me follows a beat later.

I’ve been awake too long. I know the signs. The backs of my eyes burn. My neck has gone tight. There’s a line of soreness between my shoulder blades from hours under operating lights.

And still, I look at the phone.

Me: Terminal branches next.