I, Robot: To Protect

Chapter 8

Susan spent the next hour spying on Sharicka Anson. So far, Susan had not spoken directly to the girl, nor had she introduced herself as the new resident. Once she did so, she would go on Sharicka’s radar and lose the opportunity to silently observe. Susan appreciated it when Sharicka roamed the halls or settled into the main room with the other children, as it gave Susan the chance to watch more closely from behind the one-way glass of the staffing area.

Engrossed in watching Sharicka surreptitiously smear and rip posters and artwork on the walls in strategic places, Susan did not hear a newcomer enter the staffing area and walk up behind her.

“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Susan Calvin, AOA.”

Susan whirled to face Remington Hawthorn. He wore surgical greens and disposable covers on his shoes. He had the same emerald eyes she remembered, the chiseled cheekbones, his dark blond curls wild from the operating room hat. “Well, well, well. Dr. Remington Hawthorn, Neurosurgery.” She played it cool. “About time you got here.”

Remington glanced at his watch. “Less than two hours. That’s pretty good.”

“Two years,” Susan corrected. “That girl has languished here because no one had the courage to face Sudhish Mandar.”

“Except you,” Remington pointed out. “You have more balls than an eight-peckered billy goat.”

Susan bridled at the half-assed compliment. “And you have the manners of that billy goat.” She passed him her palm-pross, with Starling’s chart at the fore.

Remington set the palm-pross on the desktop, without looking at it. “I’m sorry, Susan. You’re right. I made a huge mistake downstairs; you’re as good a doctor as any of my colleagues.”

“Damn right.” Susan did not know or care if she spoke the truth.

“Do they teach you condescension in your rotations, or are cads just drawn to surgical subspecialties?”

Remington gave the rhetorical question serious consideration before whispering conspiratorially, “Honestly, I think it’s a bit of both.”

Susan could not help smiling. Her anger dissipated.

“Give me a chance to prove I’m not as big a jerk as I seem.”

“Fine.” Susan reached for the palm-pross again, but Remington caught her hand. He did it with such ease and accuracy, he had clearly played sports in college.

“Over dinner. Tonight.”

Startled, Susan stared. The media would have people believe men no longer competed with their women, that they did not discriminate against competence, intelligence, or strength. To judge by her own sparse dating experience, the media had it wrong. Susan was not beautiful in a flashy manner. She had thin, pale lips, and her blue-gray eyes could turn downright steely. She was too thin, like her father, with little in the way of curves. Nevertheless, she had balanced features, youth, and a reasonable amount of grace. At the residents’ conference, she had felt an immediate attraction to Remington, one that his arrogance had destroyed. Now he seemed sincerely ready to make amends, and she saw no reason not to give him a second chance. “All right. When and where?”

Remington finally picked up the palm-pross. “We can leave from here. I’ll drop by when I’m finished.”

Susan suspected she would complete her work before he did, if only because the hours of the operating room ruled his schedule. “What time do you usually get done?”

“Six thirtyish?” It came out more like a question than a statement, as if he could change the time if it did not work for Susan.

Susan knew she had no real power over Dr. Sudhish Mandar. Remington would finish when his attending gave him leave. “Can you meet me in the charting room?” She described the location of the first-floor hideaway. “It’s a nice, quiet place to get some research done.”

“Works for me.” Remington saluted, then settled into the chair in front of the palm-pross, acquainting himself with Starling Woodruff’s history.

A thrill of excitement passed through Susan, but she played it cool. Snatching up an unused palm-pross, she headed for the other side of the staffing area to document her observations on Sharicka Anson. If Remington Hawthorn had any questions about Starling, she felt certain he would find her.

The charting room door opened at 6:43 p.m. Susan Calvin looked up from her conversation with Nate to a tall young man framed in the doorway. He wore pleated khakis with a green and white striped dress polo. A shower had softened and tamed his sandy hair so it hung down in loose ringlets. Despite his lean frame, she could not help noticing the masculine bulges of his arm muscles and chest. It took her a moment to recognize Remington.

Susan and Nate rose simultaneously to face the neurosurgery resident. With Nate beside him as comparison, Remington no longer seemed so tall. The robot had four or five inches on him. “Nate, this is Remington.”

Remington stepped forward to shake Nate’s hand. “Just call me Remy.” He turned his gaze to Susan. “That goes for you, too, of course.” His green eyes sparkled. They defined handsome all by themselves, even without the boyish curls and the perfect oval of his face.

Nate took Remington’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you,” Remington returned, but his gaze remained on Susan. He studied her with the same intensity she did him. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am.” Susan had also showered in the psychiatry on-call room. Unlike surgeons, she did not routinely wear scrubs, so she had no change of clothing. Her work attire would have to do. “Where are we going?”

“Your favorite restaurant.”

That surprised Susan. She wondered how he had found out such details about her so quickly. She had shared that sort of inane conversation with her fellow residents, but she doubted Remington had found the time to quiz them about her interests. “My favorite? How do you know which restaurant that is?”

Remington smiled and winked at Nate. “Actually, I was kind of hoping you’d know.”

Nate chuckled.

Susan rolled her eyes but could not help grinning. “There’s a little Chinese place a few blocks away.” She had eaten there many times with her college friends and had gone several times on visits home from medical school.

Remington shrugged. “That’s your favorite?”

“Well, yes. Short of —” Susan caught herself.

Remington persisted, “Short of what?”

“Nothing,” Susan said. “It’s my favorite.”

Remington refused to let it go. “No, seriously. What’s your real favorite?”

Susan sighed, not wishing to lie or create a problem where none existed. “A place that’s far away and very expensive.”

Nate studied Remington, brows rising slowly toward his hairline.

“Oh.” Remington did not lose his smile. “Chinese it is.”

“Chinese is perfect.”

To Susan’s surprise, he took her arm as they walked from the room. He called over his shoulder, “Nice meeting you, Nate.”

“See you tomorrow,” Susan called back, immediately wishing she had not. For now, Remington had no way of knowing what type of relationship she had with Nate. She did not want him worrying about competition.

Susan’s words did not seem to bother Remington, however. He had a smooth self-assurance about him, the same that had put her off at the auditorium. She wondered whether she would come to adore it as a part of him or despise it absolutely. Only time would tell.

The decision to walk to the restaurant was so mutual, Susan could not decide who had initiated the suggestion. They just sort of did it, striding through the cooler evening air while electric trolleys whizzed past them. Other people had also chosen to walk, but Susan found her attention riveted on Remington. Using old-fashioned manners she would have believed dead, he walked on the street side of her, clasping her hand in strong fingers without a hint of sweat.

Susan enjoyed being with him in silence until they had nearly reached the restaurant. Then, suddenly, she found herself asking, “So, is Remington an old family name?”

“Nope, I’m the first.” Remington gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “My dad is a gun collector. My twin brothers are Colt and Ruger. The family joke is that, when they named my sister, he was trying to decide between Uzi and AR-15.”

Susan cringed. “Yuck. So, what’s your sister’s name?”

“Uzi.”

Susan’s cheeks turned scarlet. Stupid. She whipped her free hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Remington shook his head, chuckling. “I’m kidding, Susan. My sister’s name is Emily.”

“Emily? Really?”

“Mom got to name any girls.”

Susan relaxed. “Lucky Emily.” Suddenly realizing the oblique insult, she added quickly, “Though I like Remington. It sounds . . .” She considered the right word.

Remington filled it in for her. “Arrogant? Jerky?”

Susan had caught on to his sense of humor. “I was going to say ‘powerful.’ But it is, obviously, the perfect name for a surgeon.”

“I hear ‘pretentious’ more often than ‘powerful.’ That’s why I’ve always gone by Remy. Colt’s not so bad — kind of trendy. But I’ve always felt bad for Ruger.”

Spotting the restaurant, Susan pointed. “There it is.” They headed toward the Golden Chopstick.

“So, how many siblings do you have, Susan?”

“None.” Growing up, Susan had appreciated being an only child, not having to share her father’s attention with anyone. Aside from discussions of his work, he tended to involve her in everything, to speak to her like an adult. “My mother died when I was very young, and my father never remarried.”

“Marriage isn’t an ultimate prerequisite for children.” Remington held open the door. The scent of food and sauces wafted through the opening, tantalizing. Susan realized just how hungry she was. They stepped inside.

“True,” Susan admitted, “but I can’t recall my father even dating after Mom died. He loved her with an all-consuming passion. He devoted himself wholly to his work and to me.” As she spoke the words, Susan realized how odd they probably sounded to Remington. She had never thought much about her father’s celibacy. As a child, it had seemed absolutely natural to remain wholly devoted to the memory of Amanda Calvin. “To him, she was the perfect woman. In his mind, no other woman could begin to measure up.”

Remington nodded, lips pursed. “She must have been quite a woman.”

Susan barely remembered her mother but gave the only answer she could. “She was.”

The host waved the pair to an empty table. Susan took the seat facing the window, and Remington sat across from her. The table already had two plates and sets of chopsticks, as well as a pair of built-in menu screens. The host left them to seat the next group of guests.

Remington planted his elbows on his menu screen to lean toward Susan. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your mother?”

It was a sore spot, but the question and the questioner were innocent. “I don’t exactly know, beyond that it was a car accident. Dad would rather have all his teeth pulled out without anesthetic than talk about it.” Susan glanced at her menu screen.

Remington moved his arms to read his own menu. “And none of your relatives would tell you about it, either?”

For most of her life, Susan had simply assumed most families did not intermingle with distant relatives. “Neither of my parents had sisters or brothers. I only have one living grandparent, my father’s mother.” She flipped her hand over. “Susan. My namesake. She never raised the subject, and it was clearly so painful to my father that I would have felt disloyal bringing it up.”

“Hmm.” Remington studied the menu. “What do you suggest?”

For an instant, Susan thought he meant about her mother’s death. Truthfully, she bore some of the blame for not knowing the details of the accident. She probably could have cornered Nana or pressed John Calvin until he told her. But the pain and discomfort the topic clearly inflicted on her father upset her, and she preferred not discussing it with anyone, including Remington Hawthorn. “Everything’s good here.”

Remington glanced around the packed restaurant. “That’s obvious.”

“The house lo mein’s my favorite,” Susan continued. “It has four meats, including shrimp.”

“All right. House lo mein and . . .” Remington studied the menu again. “How about chicken broccoli?”

“Delicious.” Susan liked the combination. “They make an excellent wonton soup, chock-full of Chinese vegetables and even some shrimp.”

“Let me guess.” Remington pressed his fingers to his temples in the manner of a psychic. “You like . . . shrimp.”

“Very much,” Susan admitted. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

“Yes,” Remington said. “Deathly. When I said we’d order the house lo mein, I was just hoping to test your ability to handle anaphylactic shock.”

“Uh-oh,” Susan said with mock seriousness.

“What?”

“When I okayed the chicken broccoli, I was testing your ability to handle anaphylactic shock.”

Remington laughed. “I’m a surgeon, remember? I’d skip the epinephrine or the wimpy antihistamines and steroids and go straight for the tracheostomy.”

As their dinnerware consisted only of chopsticks, Susan hefted one. “What would you do? Poke me till I got a splinter? Tough to do a trach without at least a butter knife.”

Remington reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of odds and ends to the tabletop, including a packaged scalpel blade, a tiny plastic suction tube, two nickels, and a cell-sized defibrillator. “I always travel prepared.”

Susan shook her head, then rolled her eyes.

“When you work with attending surgeons, you have to be. If you don’t have what they want the moment they want it, you have to weather disdain or, worse, a tantrum.” Remington watched Susan closely. He seemed to be studying her features, and a slight smile crossed his face. He clearly liked what he saw. “But you must know that. You seem to have an incredible handle on how to get the most superior surgeons to do your bidding.”

Before Remington could say another word, the server approached. “What can I get for you?”

Remington swept his gear back into his pockets. “We’d like two bowls of wonton soup to start. Dinner for two, with house lo mein and chicken broccoli.” He looked at Susan to confirm she still wanted what they had discussed.

Susan nodded.

The server tapped the order into a cousin of the palm-pross. Their menu screens changed abruptly. “Anything to drink?”

Remington went silent and let Susan answer for herself. “Tap water, please.”

“I’ll have water, too, please. And a pot of green tea to share.”

“All right.” The server typed their drink order into his palm-pad, and their menu screens added another box.

Susan did not bother to look at her screen. From long experience, she knew it now contained a list of ingredients and calorie counts for the foods they had ordered. She had no allergies, and she wasn’t worried about superfluous calories. Remington also did not bother to look. Susan suspected he never thought about such things, nor did he seem to need to.

Picking up where he’d left off, Remington said, “I meant that, about getting surgeons to do your bidding. No one in the history of the universe has gotten the self-proclaimed ‘greatest neurosurgeon’ to apologize or admit a mistake. Starling was our last case of the day. We had to keep the OR open overtime.”

Susan had no idea. When she had left the unit, Neurosurgery had not yet made a decision about Starling. Now, Remington had her absolute attention. “What did you find?”

“You tell me.”

Susan knew. “An incompletely repaired A-V fistula.”

Remington laughed. “You were right, and that only ratcheted up your celebrity among the neurosurgery crowd.”

“I have . . . celebrity?”

The server arrived with the soup, placing a bowl and squared-off hard plastic spoon in front of each of them.

“Thank you,” Susan said.

The wonton soup was exactly as Susan remembered it: clear, lightly salted broth with meat dumplings and vegetables, shreds of pork and two large shrimp. Remington picked up his spoon. “A couple of days to recover, and Starling’s on her way home.” He filled his spoon and sipped the hot soup carefully.

“Home?” Susan could scarcely believe it. “After nearly two years on the inpatient unit?” She took a taste of her own soup, reveling in the savory mix of flavors. “Just like that?”

Remington took some more soup. “Just like that. We’re not a long-term unit, Susan. Open ’em up, fix ’em, send ’em home.”

“Yeah.” Susan could not help thinking Starling had lost nearly two years of her young life for nothing. Had someone only noticed the subtle signs of heart failure earlier, Starling could have spent the last year in school. She did not blame Dr. Sudhish Mandar. She suspected he had done nothing wrong, and Remington had simplified the problem. Likely, the A-V fistula had widened farther than it originally appeared, and the venous pooling problem occurred a short distance from the initial spot. “You know, twenty-two different residents and probably ten or eleven attending physicians missed the problem.” It seemed the very definition of malpractice; yet no one appeared worried about that eventuality.

Remington kept eating, swallowing before he spoke. “It happens, Susan. More often than we want to believe. We think we know what’s going on; we put the patient in the appropriate place; then we find out it’s something entirely different. Psychiatrists aren’t wired to look for circulatory defects, just as surgeons don’t worry whether a patient loves or hates his mother before putting him under the knife.”

Susan wondered if Remington had just subtly insulted her profession, then decided to let it go. “But twenty-two months of unnecessary hospitalization? Remy, to a child, that’s a lifetime.”

Remington put down his spoon to lean across the table toward Susan. “If you don’t think to look for something, you generally don’t find it. Everyone believed the psychiatric issues were primary until you heard that gallop rhythm. Whether it was there all those months or only appeared when you did, we’ll never know. According to the chart, no one else heard it until you pointed it out. It’s very subtle. Susan, if I hadn’t known to listen for it, I probably wouldn’t have heard it, either.”

“The cardiologists heard it.”

“It’s their job to hear it. And they also had your notes to go by.” Remington sat back but still did not touch his food again. “Medicine has come a long way in the last hundred years, but it’s still an imperfect science that relies on human judgment.” He smiled. “I think the first sci-fi medical scanners came along in the 1950s. Here we are, eighty-five years later, and we still can’t take a handheld device, run it around someone, and have it diagnose everything that ails him.”

Susan sipped her soup thoughtfully while Remington talked, then said, “We do have devices that can read some things through the skin.”

“Sure we do. Pulse oximeters are some fifty years old, and skin blood glucose monitors came along only a few decades later. Now, we can read a lot of things through skin using lights, magnets, vibrations, and lasers, but it’s still only data, the levels of various chemicals and gases running through the blood. For diagnoses, we rely on human intuition, experience, knowledge, and intelligence. And, in my opinion, we always will. It takes thought to figure out things as amazingly complex as the human body, all the things that can possibly go wrong with it. No machine could ever do that.”

Until a few days ago, Susan would have agreed wholeheartedly.

When she did not, Remington pressed. “Don’t you agree?”

“Well,” Susan finally said, “I don’t think we’ll ever have medical tricorders, lifeless devices that can make diagnoses about body parts they can’t see or touch.” Susan absentmindedly took more soup, chewed, and swallowed.

Remington prodded. “But . . .”

Susan did not disappoint him. “But . . . thinking robots could retain more information than any human. They could digest every medical textbook, every journal, and use that vast store of knowledge to examine patients and come up with appropriate diagnoses. They could use hearing and vision far superior to our own, memory storage areas we could only dream of, and unthinkable speed to do the jobs we take for granted every day.”

Remington returned to his soup. “I don’t see thinking robots happening any time soon. Maybe not ever.”

Susan delivered the coup de grâce. “They already exist.”

“What?”

“My father works with them. I’m telling you, they exist. And, tomorrow, I’ll prove it.”

Remington looked skeptical, but he did not challenge her. “How about tonight?”

Now it was Susan’s turn to sputter out, “What?”

“If such a thing exists, I want to see it as soon as possible.” Remington’s green eyes sparkled. Clearly, the rush stemmed from interest rather than mistrust. “How far do we have to go?”

“Just to the hospital.” Susan had no intention of spoiling the surprise by announcing that Remington had already met a thinking robot. She wanted him to get to know Nate as human before divulging the secret. She only hoped she could get Nate to play along. “I suppose tonight’s fine. Just because I don’t have call again doesn’t mean I can’t stay at the hospital all night, does it?”

Remington laughed. “I get it. How about tomorrow morning? Rounds start at eight o’clock, but I can meet you anytime before that.”

Susan’s rounds did not begin until nine a.m. Most of the psychiatry residents came in at eight o’clock to review patients ahead of time. She wondered how the neurosurgery residents managed to get in some work time before rounds and guessed they probably rounded first and saw patients afterward. “Let’s make it seven o’clock. We’ll meet the same place we did tonight.”

“All right.” Finished with his soup, Remington sat back.

Susan worked to catch up, concentrating on the food rather than on conversation.

Remington allowed her to finish before bringing up another subject. “I really would like to sincerely apologize for the way I treated you when we first met.”

Susan pushed aside the soup bowl and gently dabbed her face with her napkin before returning it to her lap. “You already apologized for that. I was under the assumption this dinner made up for it.”

“Does it?” The tone of Remington’s voice, the expression on his face, made it clear the answer mattered.

Susan did not dither. “Yes, of course. I wouldn’t have agreed if it didn’t. Now, should I apologize to you for, as Kendall Stevens put it, verbally castrating you in response?”

A slight red tinge touched the center of Remington’s cheeks, but he smiled. “Please don’t apologize for that. I liked it.”

The server took the empty soup bowls and spoons, while Susan gave Remington an incredulous look. “You . . . like . . . being castrated?”

“Verbally castrated,” Remington clarified. “I like that you stood up to me. Not many women would do that, especially not with such speed and accuracy. You’d have made a damn fine surgeon.”

Susan’s voice gained the flat tone of rising anger. “You’re coming close to insulting me again.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that in a ‘surgeons are better than internists’ way. I meant it in a ‘surgeons are dickheads’ way.”

“So . . . I’m a dickhead.”

The neurosurgery resident buried his face in his palms and tried again. “I’m not saying you are a dickhead. Just that you’d make a good one. I’m trying to say you have . . .”

“Balls?” Susan inserted.

“I certainly hope not.” Remington mocked being scandalized, his eyes as round as coins. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that, on the PIPU, he had suggested she might have sixteen of those anatomical appendages. “How about chutzpah?”

Susan accepted that as inoffensive. “Chutzpah it is. I even like saying chutzpah.” She emphasized the guttural “ch” as she repeated the word. “Chhhhhutzpah.”

“Chutzpah is the only thing that impresses surgeons, and then only if it’s backed up by competence. And that’s what I like about you. You have both in spades.”

It amazed Susan how quickly Remington had turned what started out as an insult into the ultimate compliment. “Are we back to the celebrity of getting the greatest neurosurgeon in the world to return my call? Because it wasn’t that big a deal. All I did was demand he treat me with a little bit of respect.”

“And therein lies the magic.” Remington raised his hands as if preaching. “Most surgeons have this idea the world exists to serve them and that anyone beneath them should behave in a servile manner. And most do. So, when someone dares to stand up to them, they take notice. If it’s backed up by ability, they respect. If it’s all air, they attack. One false move, and you turn from equal to prey in an instant.”

At that moment, the food arrived. The server placed their selections on the table, along with rice, glasses of water, teacups, and a pot of steaming tea.

“Most surgeons,” Remington said, “are simple to understand.” He ladled rice onto his plate, followed by dollops of chicken broccoli and house lo mein.

Susan took smaller portions of the same food. “Are you simple to understand?”

Remington only nodded until he swallowed a bite of food. “For the most part. I have a bit more insight into what I want for my future, though.”

“Oh?” Susan pressed.

“I want a woman who can and will challenge me, not a young puppy whose only attributes are bleached-blond hair, round buttocks, and enormous breasts. I want to come home from work and share my day with a wife who not only has a life of her own, but can help me when I’m missing something that could save or lose a life.”

Susan smirked. “You don’t like breasts?”

“I’m a man. I love breasts, but they have to be attached to an intelligent woman for me to want a relationship.” Remington ate some more. “So many of my older colleagues marry for nothing but looks and willingness to obey orders; and, at fifty-five, they have no problem trading their forty-year-old spouses for two twenty-year-old mistresses.”

Susan had food in her mouth and, so, did not reply. She wondered if the same thing applied to female surgeons and supposed it did. Otherwise, he would have used the word “wives” instead of “spouses.”

“They don’t understand why their love life has gone stale, why they lost the excitement. So they try to find it in younger and younger men or women, never realizing what they actually seek is some emotional and intellectual stimulation, not kinkier sex.”

Susan cut to the chase. “Are you asking me out on another date?”

Remington chewed thoughtfully. “I suppose I am. Was that a psychiatry trick?”

“Not really. I’m just good at recognizing a description of myself. Average looks, and too smart for her own good.”

Remington dropped his chopsticks. “By whose description? I find you very attractive, and I believe I told you so when we first met.”

Susan recalled. When their fingers had accidentally touched, he had said, “I’ll take any excuse to hold hands with a pretty woman.” “I thought that was just a line.”

“Then I’ll say it again.” Remington took Susan’s empty left hand and clasped it briefly in his right. His gaze found hers and held it, expressing all sincerity. “I find you very attractive, Dr. Susan Calvin.”

Susan did not know what to say. She could feel her face warming uncomfortably. “Thanks, Remy. I don’t imagine I have to tell you you’re a handsome man.”

Remington reclaimed his hand. “Of course not.” He smiled broadly. “I’m a surgeon. I know I’m perfect.”

Susan laughed and ate, trying for ladylike grace as she did so. The chopsticks didn’t help.

Remington used his like a professional, handling individual grains of rice without difficulty. Susan wondered if that came from experience or naturally fine motor skills. She wondered if the decision to enter surgery had as much to do with hand dexterity as temperament.

“So, your father collects guns.”

Mouth full, Remington only nodded.

“Does he go hunting?”

Remington swallowed. “Not often. He’s more of a shooting range kind of guy. He spends more time reading about guns and cleaning those he has. I think he gets a kick out of taking them apart and reassembling them.”

Susan liked that answer. She had always planned to have a home free of firearms. One date, and I’m already thinking through a marriage to this guy. Though it seemed premature, Susan knew her thoughts were normal. Surely most women in their late twenties considered the future whenever they dated. “Do you shoot?”

“I have.” Remington studied Susan, clearly trying to read her opinion on the matter. “Could you imagine the jokes? A man named Remington never firing a . . .”

“Remington?”

“Yeah. I’ve hunted many times.”

“Oh.” Susan tried not to sound disappointed. She wondered if she could ever learn to live with a man who shot innocent animals for sport.

Chopsticks hovering, Remington continued to study Susan. “You didn’t ask the follow-up question.”

Susan had no idea what he meant. “Follow-up?”

“Have I ever shot anything?”

Susan put the ends of her chopsticks in her mouth to savor a few clinging grains of rice. “Well, I just assumed . . .”

“Never.” Remington’s gaze went distant. “I love crouching in the tree stand, looking down on the forest. After a half hour or so, the animals come back. The birds sing in a way you never seem to hear when you’re just hiking. They land on the stand itself and look right through you for bugs and crumbs. The squirrels chatter and play, without hiding on the far sides of the trees. The deer browse, nibbling at the trunk, at the greenery. This one’s too small, that one’s a doe, the other’s a buck without enough points to bother shooting. Don’t want to waste my tag on just anything. When a large buck does come along, it’s never in quite the right position for a clear shot, you know?”

Susan could not help grinning. “I know. You’re more of a deer watcher than a deer hunter.”

“Besides, the report might scare away the even larger buck that might come along next.” Remington smiled crookedly. “My dad says I’m hopeless.” He returned to his food, finished his plate, and added a bit more of everything.

Still on her first serving, Susan gestured at the serving dishes. “Have as much as you like. I won’t be able to eat seconds.”

“I’m good now.” Remington dexterously worked on his plate.

When the bill card arrived, Remington grabbed it, looked, and pulled a bankcard from his wallet.

“Split it?” Susan suggested.

Never taking his eyes from the card, Remington frowned at her. “Not a chance. I asked you, remember?”

“But I picked the place.”

“Yes.” Remington finally looked at Susan. “And thank you. You’re a cheap date.”

“Why pay more than you have to for food this good?”

“For sure.”

Remington fed the bill into the tableside pay slot. When the right amount flashed up, he inserted his bankcard. The machine clicked, a green light came on, and the card returned. “Who’d have thought they’d find a new use for those ancient computer cards?”

Susan recalled her grandmother mentioning this, also during a restaurant payment. She had talked about a time when computers needed individual programmed cards just to work each step. She had once dropped a two hundred–card program that had taken months to write. From then on, she had painstakingly penciled page numbers on all her cards.

Of course, the restaurant cards were much sleeker and smaller than the old-time ones, which her grandmother described as the size of a three-by-nine-inch mailing envelope.

Remington rose. “Now, how do I get you home?”

“Just put me on the number seven tram, and I’ll get right to the complex door.” Susan also stood up. The mingled odors of sauces no longer enticed now that she felt comfortably full. The décor was simple: Chinese paper lanterns dangling over each table and stylized paintings of koi on the walls. “Which one do you take home?”

“The five.” Remington put an arm across Susan’s back to guide her safely to the door. “But I’m not going home yet. I want to check up on my last postsurgical patient.”

Susan remembered. “Starling?”

“Yup.”

Susan consulted her Vox as they passed through the door onto the now-dark street. “But it’s after nine.”

Remington shrugged. “That’s the positive side of surgeons. We’re dedicated.”

Susan could scarcely deny it, at least when it came to Remington. “Clearly. But doesn’t that defy the humane residency laws, the ones put in place to ensure we get sleep, food, and . . . a life? To make us safer doctors.”

Remington shook his head. “The humane residency laws only define the hours they can make us work. We can volunteer extra if we wish, and I don’t know a surgery resident who doesn’t.”

Susan got it. “So, anyone who follows the letter of the laws looks like a piker and suffers for it.”

Remington shrugged. “I suppose. But I’ll get home in time to sleep. I already ate, and I just finished a wonderful date.”

“Wonderful?” Susan could not help smiling. She found herself edging toward him.

Remington swept her into an embrace. They kissed there on the street, just outside the Golden Chopstick, the taste of house lo mein and chicken broccoli still on both their lips. A tingle traversed Susan, and she found herself pressing closer to him. She had never felt both so comfortable and so wildly excited. She wondered if it would surprise or bother him to find out she was still a virgin.

As the kiss ended, Susan whispered into Remington’s face. “Do me a favor.” She did not wait for him to agree. “If you have the time, go to the charting room and say good night to Nate.”

Remington stepped back, and Susan cursed herself for mentioning another man at that intimate moment. She silently berated herself, No wonder I’m still a virgin.

“Do you think he’ll still be at the hospital? This late?”

Susan said cryptically, “I can virtually guarantee it.”