The rep wasn’t just observing — he was advising on device placement during spinal procedures, because the company was funding Nathan’s research program.”

“That is not true,” Nathan said.

“It is true. Lily reported it. Afterward, her evaluations suddenly changed. She became unstable. Difficult. Not a team player. And when her appendix ruptured a few weeks later and she needed emergency surgery, you made sure she went under the knife on your own service — the last place she’d ever have chosen.”

The name came back to me. Lily Monroe.

Two years earlier, Nathan had come home unusually quiet for three evenings in a row. He’d told me a young physician had died after complications from an appendectomy, and described it as tragic and unavoidable — the kind of loss that haunted even excellent hospitals.

I’d made him tea. I’d sat beside him on the couch while he stared into the distance. I had comforted him.