Chapter 60

All the studying pays off.The day before the anatomy exam grades are announced to be posted, Dr. Conlon calls me into his office. I can't imagine what my anatomy professor wants to tell me, but it can't be bad news—I kicked ass on the anatomy exam.

Dr. Conlon is pulling a book out of one of his shelves when I come in. He tosses the book onto his desk then grabs his cane and limps back to his seat. His cane nearly snags his desk in the process, and he plops down into his chair.

Dr. Conlon is a loser. I hate to say it, but yeah. He just is. The cane and the limp aren't even half of it.

I mean, the man wears bowties. Enough said.

"Sit down, Dr. Howard," Dr. Conlon says to me, a stern look on his face.

I don't like it that he calls us all "doctor." It's patronizing, especially since a fair number of my classmates will never become doctors. But I'm not going to say anything. Anyway, I sit down in front of his desk.

"May I ask you a question?" Dr. Conlon says.

I nod, intrigued.

Dr. Conlon doesn't just ask me one question but lets loose with a rapid fire of difficult anatomy questions. He asks about the gut anastomoses, the innervation of the muscles in the pelvic floor, and a bunch of stuff that's ridiculously obscure. He doesn't even tell me if I'm right or not. By the end, I have to admit, I'm struggling to keep my composure. These questions are hard.

Finally, after the fifteenth question in a row, I interrupt him: "Listen, what's this about?"

Dr. Conlon reaches into his desk and pulls out some stapled papers that I recognize as my exam. He tosses it down on the table.

"I've never seen anyone get a perfect score on the practical exam before," he says. "I had to make sure you weren't cheating."

"And?"

"You know your shit, Howard. I'm impressed."

I smile.

"What field are you interested in?" he asks me.

"Plastics," I reply without hesitation.

Dr. Conlon nods. "I have a good friend at UCSF in the plastics department. If you keep this up, I'd be happy to write him a letter on your behalf. Or even give him a call."

I feign surprise. But of course, I knew about Conlon's connections to plastics at UCSF. It's one of the best programs in the country—makes me curse the fact that I'm not a California native. One of the reasons I'm here at DeWitt is because of Dr. Conlon and what he can do for me. I'll rotate over there and impress the hell out of them, of course, but a letter would be gold.

"Thank you, sir," I say.

Dr. Conlon smiles. "Keep up the good work."

Everything is falling into place.