Adam
Genevieve Yates
I tried to focus on the chart in front of me, but it may as well have been written in Russian. I’d been awake for thirty-two hours, and my brain, thick with fatigue, refused to cooperate. I knew I shouldn’t be working, but I was too proud, too stubborn, too something to admit that I wasn’t coping.
On the first day of my neurosurgical rotation, the resident I was replacing had told me, “Ten-to-fourteen-hour days,