My sister and I walked the same road—same medical school, same sleepless nights. But when it was over, our parents cleared her debt… and left mine behind.

I moved to Baltimore on a humid Sunday that smelled faintly of rain and the bay. The rowhouse I rented in Canton had brick walls that held the summer heat and a narrow staircase that made moving boxes feel like a core rotation. A neighbor named Elaine knocked twenty minutes after the movers left with a plate of cookies and a business card for her cousin, who owned a reliable locksmith. “City rule,” she said. “Change your locks and learn your alleys.”

Orientation at Johns Hopkins was a blur of ID badges, safety trainings, and a tour of the laboratory where I would spend most of my waking hours. Dr. Vivien Fleming introduced me to the senior investigators like she was placing chess pieces with intent. “This is Dr. O’Neal,” she said, gesturing to a compact man with careful eyes. “He pioneered the microvascular graft model you cited on page nineteen. And this is Dr. Reyes, who will try to steal you for neuromodulation at least once a week. Let her try. You’ll say no if it doesn’t serve the work.”