“And within a matter of weeks”—Zack does a light drum roll on the edge of the table—“you’ll be a chief resident! By the way, did you tell Dr. Wilson you’re definitely running?”

“I’m sure he already knows. Everyone does.” Suhani shrugs.

She can’t imagine walking into her program director’s office and announcing that she wants to be a chief. Despite getting a perfect GPA year after year throughout middle and high school, then excelling through four years at Emory, there’s always a voice in her head telling her she got lucky.

“Even if he does know, he needs to hear it from you,” Zack says. “I’m sure all the other residents who are running have already gone to kiss his ass. But none of them have made a partnership between the psych and OB departments or been the head of so many committees. You have to own all the work you’ve done.”

She pictures Zack putting this all on a note and sticking it on their kitchen counter. Zack’s a big note leaver. Sometimes, after a tough day, she’ll find a yellow Post-it on the bathroom mirror: I love my hot doctor! Congrats on finishing yet another hard call shift!

DO NOT CLEAN THE APARTMENT! JUST RELAX!

“You make a good point, as always, Ben Wyatt,” Suhani says. They nicknamed each other Ben and Leslie after noting the similarities between them and the Parks and Recreation couple.

Zack shakes his head and smiles. “You’re so funny sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” Suhani asks, even though she knows what he’s going to say.

“You’re so type A about everything except advocating for yourself. I really don’t get it. If you were a guy, especially a white guy”—Zack winks—“you’d be puffing out your chest and bragging about all the work you’ve done.”

“You know I’d love to walk around all day with that type of confidence. But you also know that I’d be punished for seeming too aggressive at work,” Suhani reminds him.

The rules are always different for people like us, Mom told Suhani over and over again when she was younger. Mom was right. She always has to prove herself, let her work speak for itself, and not risk being seen as too greedy, too presumptuous, too anything.

“Oh, hello!” Zack exclaims. “Where are your parents?”

A chubby little girl, around three or four years old, is standing at their table. Her curly hair is held in place with a sparkly white butterfly clip. Zack waves at her and puffs out his cheeks. She erupts into a fit of laughter.

“My dress,” she says as she points to her sky-blue dress.

“Like a princess!” Zack’s voice says at a higher than normal pitch.

The girl smiles, pleased with his approval. Zack spots her parents in the back corner and walks her to their table.