‘Don’t be fooled!’ he booms, making everyone in the room jump slightly. ‘They don’t teach you this in medical school but, rest assured, your main problems aren’t going to be the operations or the patients or the fear or the loneliness.’

‘Gosh, he’s really selling it,’ Lawrence mutters next to me.

‘It’s the fact that at some point in your future, some other doctor—or an administrator, or a nurse, or some other colleague, maybe several of them—will actively try to destroy your career.’

Dr Bird looks around the room, his beady little eyes lighting on each of us in turn, letting the words sink in. He might have a birth certificate that says Bird, but he reminds me of a shark eyeing his prey. Last words, little fish, before I devour you whole. Chomp, chomp, chomp. I immediately christen him the Shark in my mind and forget his real name for the rest of my life.

‘Anyway, that’s just some food for thought,’ he concludes, as the rest of the department starts to file into the room, obviously wanting to scare the pants off the new junior doctors before the meeting even formally begins, and succeeding. ‘You can’t say you weren’t warned.’

Someone turns on the overhead projector and the image of a mashed-up brain beams onto the screen in front of us. A man stands up, and I cringe as I recognise him. The Joker returns. After our less than positive meeting last night, I’d been hoping he might fall sick or something and stay home, but no such luck. Not that that would ever happen; doctors aren’t allowed to get sick. So here he is, once again pointing at a brain scan.

‘Twenty-six-year-old female, assaulted with a king hit to the face two nights ago, brought in unconscious by ambulance through emergency.’

As his voice drones on I replay the Shark’s words.

Every step of the way in this profession, someone will try to derail your career.

It’s hard to remember at this moment why I’d ever wanted to become a doctor. I’d been so sure when I embarked on my medical degree: so committed, so driven, so convinced I would be able to make a difference.

‘For the prestige and the scripts,’ Estelle always says when people ask her the question. ‘Why else would you do it?’

‘Katarina!’

I snap to attention to see the Joker glaring at me. The mild ache that’s been sitting behind my eyes immediately declares itself as a full-blown throb.

‘Ah … yes?’

‘Describe the scan,’ he snaps.

NOT THIS AGAIN!

I stare at the image, and try to think clearly. Blood is white, and ischaemia is darker. There’s some white, and some inflammation. The midline looks off; maybe there’s a shift. Bleed likely from the middle cerebral artery with midline shift and oedema, I think to myself.