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“‘Beatrix met the requirements of the program,’” I say, “instead of ‘Beatrix is exceptional.’ One sentence in the wrong tone and you might be at one of the lower rung med schools, if at all. And the worst part is you never even find out why.”

Gianna winces. “Okay, that’s genuinely crazy. Higher education is a scam.”

I shrug. “It’s the only way to become a doctor.”

Gianna thinks. “And who writes yours?”

“Dr. Priya Ahuja. She heads pre-health advising. She runs the committee, and she’s the one who actually drafts mine.” I exhale. “It’s the reason I’m in the Learning Assistant program. She recruited me. She’s big on being well-rounded, that a good doctor isn’t just someone who knows the textbook. I mean, technically it’s optional, but Priya recruited me into it. And I will do anything to make sure my letter is glowing.” I spread my hands.

Gianna sits back. “Okay. Doesn’t sound too bad though.”

“No. I guess, it shouldn’t be.” I open the laptop again. “It’s fine. It’s one hour a week. I’ll do a good job, I’ll log my hours, then in June I’ll have an A-list committee letter and a great MCAT score, and I’ll apply, and I’ll match with the best school and achieve all my wildest dreams.” I take a breath.

Callum Fox’s passing grade just became my ticket to my wildest dreams. So I’m going to be the best freakin’ tutor he’s ever seen.

“Who’s the tutee?” she asks.

“Just some guy repeating A&P,” I say. “Nobody.”

Chapter Seven

Cal

The condo is on the third floor of a yellow-brick building on Sycamore Street, right at the edge of Mountain Springs, near the trails. Mabel always wanted to be close to nature.

Unfortunately, nature appears to be trying to reclaim the building.

The elevator is out again, so I take the stairs carrying two bags of groceries and the replacement kitchen faucet Mabel insists she does not need. There’s a printed sign taped over the elevator button.

TEMPORARILY OUT OF SERVICE.

It has been temporarily out of service four times since September.

The building went up for sale a few years back, six weeks after our first single started doing numbers, and I bought the condo before the check had finished clearing. First real money I’d ever earned, sitting in my account looking like a mistake or a fucking typo. Within a week, I’d spent most of it on a two-bed condo I’ve never slept in.

At the time, it seemed like the smartest thing I’d ever done. Property. An investment. Something solid with my name on the deed.

Since then, the place has required a new boiler, replacement windows, three separate plumbing repairs, and an emergency contribution toward the parking garage, despite the fact that Mabel does not own a car. The monthly association fee has almost doubled. Every few months, Bayhill Property Management sends another envelope explaining why owning property is apparently just renting from a building that occasionally demands several thousand dollars at gunpoint.

Still, Mabel loves it, which means I am happy.

She can see the mountains from the kitchen. The trails are close enough that, on good days, she can walk to them. She knows every neighbor’s business and loves it.

So, I pay the invoices and tell myself it was a great investment. After all, I owe my aunt everything.

When I tell the boys I’m busy and can’t be reached for a few hours because of a thing, they accept it now. The perk of my reputation is that nobody asks what kind of thing—they fill in a woman or a hangover.

I reach the third floor and let myself in with my key.

“It’s me, Cal,” I call.

“I know,” she croaks back.

I hang my jacket on the hook by the door and make my way into the kitchen.

She’s at the counter making tea. She looks well today.

“Sit, my boy,” she says without turning around.