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 placed the note in a drawer with Elaine’s locksmith card and left the photos on the table until the edges curled.

The first child I consented into our study was a boy named Theo who loved space documentaries and hated needles. His mother asked the kind of careful questions that usually indicate an online rabbit hole. “How many children have been through this protocol? What are your pre-specified endpoints? Has the FDA made noises about the pharmacologic component?”

I answered each one, grateful for the hours I’d spent with the institutional review board. When we finished, she exhaled and said, “I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. The last month has made me into someone I don’t recognize.”

“I think she’s called ‘a mother,’” I said. We signed. Theo flinched at the blood draw and then told me the moons of Jupiter in order.

That night Jessica texted a photo from a break room where a resident class sat on the floor in wrinkled scrubs, eating cold hospital pizza from the box. Her caption: Nobody told me the mozzarella would have PTSD. I sent back a picture of the Inner Harbor lights and the caption: Nobody told me the lights would look like ECG tracings.