And the thing is, I had hundreds of questions I wanted to ask her, but not a single one of them felt the need to show up. In silence, walking alongside her, I unexpectedly found a form of comfort. It wasn't as good as sleep, but it was on par with dreaming.

I stared at the words Everly Anne wrote in my notebook, as I struggled through the last two hours of my shift.

If there's one thing I've learned about living in New York, it's this: everything is showcased in neon lights, like an extension of the devil's hand lending a shiny red apple, thirsting for someone to take that first bite. Growing up in Red Pine, Georgia, I only had to listen to the rumble of my stomach to hear hunger. A handful of wildflowers could mend a little girl's broken heart. I wonder, now, living surrounded by temptation, when will the dew of my roots dry out, and I too, will reach for something too sickly sweet and shiny.

I closed my eyes and imagined Everly playing in the wildflowers as a little girl growing up in . . . Georgia!

She was the little girl from my father's dreams.

There was no explaining that to Logan or the group, however. I logged into our notes that she grew up in Georgia, and kept the rest for myself.

I was finishing up my last set of rounds when the attending for pediatrics, Dr. Bloomfield, found me in the neonatal nursery.

"How are you doing, Callum?"

"I'm fine."

"Was last night the first patient you've lost?"

I was taken aback by her question for a moment. "No. I had a man die in the E.R. last year. We worked on him for almost forty-five minutes but his vitals never changed."

"A little bit different losing babies, though, isn't it?"

I rested my patient's chart back into the slot on the incubator. "Is this a psych evaluation? Are you worried about me or something? I've covered all my patients for the last forty-eight hours without a hitch. There wasn't anything we could do for that baby. There wasn't ... we did everything we could have possibly done, but it died. It completely sucks ... but it's part of this job."

She smiled small. "You're doing well. I was only making sure everything was all right. Matter of fact, I was curious if you had picked a specialty yet? I'd love to have Andrew Trovatto's son on my team. And you have to be dying to get away from Brighton."

"I haven't picked a specialty," I said, "but I don't think I'm suited for Pediatrics."

"No? That's hard to believe. Your father was one of the best. Thought you'd like to follow in his footsteps."

"I don't wish to follow in his footsteps, as contradictory as that might be to the profession I've chosen."

Dr. Bloomfield laughed. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. There's always a place for you here."

"How did you know my father?" I asked.

"He was my attending," she smiled. "A very good teacher. I wish he was still here."

"Yeah."

"Tell you what . . ." she lifted the patient's chart. " . . . I'll finish up here. Go home. If I know Brighton correctly, you have to attend class at noon, right?"

"Actually, in about an hour," I laughed tiredly. "If you can call attending class nodding off in between lectures, that is."

"What other definition is there?"

"Okay, I admit, you're definitely more enjoyable than Brighton."

She poked my coat pocket. "And better looking."

On my way through Pediatrics I spotted familiar peach hair through the window of a playroom. Everly sat on the floor with three bald-headed children listening as she read them a book. She had a smaller child huddled in her lap, curling a long section of her hair around their finger. As she read her face lit with expression to make the children laugh, and her voice sounded out longer words for their young ears, slowed down for important parts, and ended with a soft slow wrapping of the book's final words.

She helped each of them to their feet, and a nurse who waited patiently in the corner, helped them back to their room. Everly caught me spying from the door as she sat in one of the chairs adjacent to the bookcase.

I sat beside her as she said, "You know, a playroom for kids too-sick to get out of bed is just about as useless as a call room for doctors who need sleep."

I smiled. "What were you reading to them?"

"The Velveteen Rabbit. One of my nurses used to read it to me as a child, you know, trying to make me feel better about myself."

"Did it work?" I asked.

"It was better than Peter Pan, that's for sure. I mean at least this book is telling them the truth. Once you are real, you can never be ugly. That's the truth, and kids should know the truth."

"What's your favorite book-as an adult?"