I picked up the pen. Marcus’s smirk widened. Then I clicked it shut and set it gently on top of the resignation letter. “Before I sign anything,” I said, “you should probably look at what’s about to load on the conference room screen.” His face flickered. Behind him, the double doors swung open and Dr. Patel, the Chief of Surgery, walked in flanked by two members of the ethics committee, my uncle included. They weren’t smiling. Dr. Patel held a tablet. “Marcus, we need you in Conference Room B. Now.” Marcus laughed, that brittle laugh men use when the ground tilts. “Whatever Elena told you, she’s a disgruntled fellow trying to—” “She didn’t tell us anything,” Dr. Patel said. “She submitted forty-three pages of operative reports, anesthesia logs, and your own dictated notes. The Whitlock case. The Alvarez twins. The Donnelly bypass. All blamed on residents who weren’t even in the room.” The color drained from his face. The nurses had stopped pretending to chart. One of them, Jamie, the same nurse he’d reduced to tears last Christmas, slowly folded her arms and watched. Marcus turned back to me, voice shaking. “You little—you have no idea what you’ve just done.” I picked up the resignation letter, tore it neatly in half, and handed both pieces to him. “Actually, I do. I just made sure the next kid you operate on goes home to their parents.” Security escorted him out through the same lobby where his portrait hung as last year’s Surgeon of the Year. By morning, the portrait was gone. By Friday, so was his license. I kept the pen. It writes beautifully.
