Dr. Chan has a badge clipped to one of her belt loops. Underneath where it reads konny chan in bold blue letters, there’s a picture where her eyes are brighter, her hair shinier. It had to be taken years ago, maybe even before she was bogged down by the drudgery of residency, because now her skin has the dullness of being indoors and awake for too many years. Still, she’s elegant in a black turtleneck and tiny pearl studs.

“I’m happy to hear that you’re feeling better now.” Dr. Chan smiles and Natasha can tell she means it. She comes off as kind and no-nonsense. One of those women who’s comfortable in her skin. Natasha bets she always wears minimal makeup—even on special occasions—and enjoys fine wine and classical music.

Natasha cringes as Dr. Chan does a quick once-over of her scuffed Keds, faded T-shirt, and ripped jeans. Surely the doctor isn’t judging her outfit. She hears Mom’s voice: See? It’s always important to look presentable.

And for once, Natasha wishes she did look more put together. It would at least motivate Dr. Chan to discharge her as soon as possible. She glances at the clock above Dr. Chan’s head. Based on her knowledge of the emergency room from Dad, Suhani, and the one time she came here with Ifeoma when she had appendicitis, Natasha estimates that she can get out of here in an hour if she plays it cool. Suhani will root for her once she gets here, too.

“Thanks,” Natasha says. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Or even really thought about hurting myself. I was just freaking out.”

“Well, it sounds like things were really bad. Can you tell me what’s been going on?”

“Just a lot of quarter-life-crisis stuff,” Natasha mumbles. “Nothing that’s really that bad.”

“Has anything changed recently?” Dr. Chan props her hand under her chin. “Or been more stressful?”

A slew of doctors and nurses run to the other end of the ER. A deep, overhead voice yells, “CODE BLUE IN ED BED FOUR,” on the intercom. Dr. Chan’s not fazed at all by the chaos, while Natasha just wants to scream at the top of her lungs. She could really use a weed brownie right now.

“Yeah. A lot has changed,” Natasha says. “I broke up with my boyfriend—my best friend since I was a baby—right after he proposed. And I thought we could get back together. I mean, just because I don’t want to get married doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with him. But he’s already moved on with some chick who’s better for him. Or at least, better than me, that’s for sure.”