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Maggie: You’re really just going to keep teaching me?

Me: You asked.

Maggie: People ask for things all the time. Usually society protects them from consequences.

Me: Not tonight.

A pause.

Then: That was either threatening or educationally supportive.

Me: Both.

I start the car. The dashboard comes alive in a muted wash of light. I back out carefully, one hand on the wheel, phone face up in the cupholder. I don’t text while moving. She sends three messages before I reach the exit.

Maggie: Fine. Terminal branches.

Maggie: But give me the exam version, not the “I have a secret medical degree and terrifying confidence” version.

Maggie: Also, if you say musculocutaneous too casually, I’m calling the police.

At the red light outside the hospital, I type: Musculocutaneous. C5-C7. Motor to biceps brachii, brachialis, coracobrachialis. Sensory to lateral forearm.

The reply comes as the light turns green. I leave it unread until the next stop.

Maggie: You said it casually. I am alerting authorities.

Me: Learn it first.

Maggie: Bossy.

Me: Correct.

Maggie: Do you ever get tired of being correct?

I look at that longer than I should. Rain slides over the windshield in thin silver lines. Boston is mostly empty at this hour, all wet roads and lit windows. A bus pulls away from the curb. Someone in a dark jacket runs across the crosswalk with a paper bag tucked under their coat.

I type when the light changes back to red.

Me: No.

Her answer arrives almost immediately.

Maggie: Of course not. God forbid you have a flaw.

I glance at the message.

A flaw.

I have several. Most are not charming.

Me: I have flaws.

Maggie: Name one.

The light turns.

I drive. The phone waits.