I still retain a clear memory of my first glimpse of Vani. The week before classes began, the school had hosted a few social events on the downtown campus for the incoming first-years to get to know one another. At one of the evening events, I drifted toward one of the tables, uncertain as to how to approach anyone. Quite a few people appeared to already know each other; in the center of the room, two Amazons held court surrounded by a bobbing, jostling sea of guys. Later that week I’d learn their names—Zadie and Emma—and realize Emma disliked big social situations as much as I did and Zadie was one of those rare people oblivious to her own charm. But in the moment, I hated them. All that laughter; all that blond hair. How had they gotten into medical school?

“Good grief,” said a musical voice at my left ear. “I think these cookies are recycled from yesterday’s luncheon.”

I peered at the table. Grease-spotted paper plates, the same mound of yellow-frosted lard that had been foisted upon us at the last event. Wait a minute . . .

“I think these same cookies have been at every function this week, actually,” I said, turning to see who was standing next to me. “Somebody must feel strongly about reusing them.”

A woman: dark, smooth hair, flawless dark skin, lovely curving eyes and lips and cheeks. Was everyone here going to resemble a supermodel? At least this one wasn’t a tall skinny blond.

“Kira Marchand,” I said, nodding formally.

“Vani Darshana.”

The next week, on our first day, the silent herd of first-years trundled to the gross anatomy lab. This room, of course, had been the subject of much nervous speculation at our pre-parties. Most of us were twenty-two-year-olds; few if any of us had ever seen a dead body, let alone dissected one. In my fevered imagination, I’d conjured images of professors hunching over corpses in dim, chiaroscuro basements, spotlighted by pools of sickly green light as onlookers lurked behind medieval death masks. Instead, we were ushered into a spacious, airy room on the top floor of the building, ringed on three sides by high transom windows offering a view of vivid blue sky and delicate, lacy clouds. The windows were too high on the wall for anyone in the adjacent sky-rises to peer in; this, our instructor told us, was a good thing, since the closest building housed an old-folks home.

A few uneasy chuckles; nobody was quite sure if this was a joke. We shuffled one at a time to the corner of the room to receive our assignments and then to our respective tables. For the remainder of the year, we’d be clustered in a group of four around our particular body, which we’d dissect slowly, one organ system at a time.