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to room 632, checked the name on the door against my list, and knocked. A voice said, "Enter."
    "Good evening, Mr. Morgan. I am Doctor Groopman, your new intern." The appellation "Doctor Groopman" still sounded strange to me, but it was imprinted on the nameplate pinned to my jacket.
    William Morgan was described in his chart as "a 66-year-old African-American man" with hypertension that was difficult to control with medications. He had been admitted to the hospital two days earlier with chest pains. I called up from my mental encyclopedia the fact that African Americans have a high incidence of hypertension, which could be complicated by cardiac enlargement and kidney failure. His initial ER evaluation and subsequent blood tests and electrocardiogram did not point to angina, pain from coronary artery blockage. Mr. Morgan shook my hand firmly and grinned. "First day, huh?"
    I nodded. "I saw in your chart that you're a letter carrier," I said. "My grandfather worked in the post office too."
    "Carrier?"
    "No, he sorted mail and sold stamps."
    William Morgan told me that he had started out that way, but was a "restless type" and felt better working outside than inside, even in the worst weather.
    "I know what you mean," I said, thinking that right now I too would rather be outside than inside—alone, in charge of a floor of sick people. I updated Mr. Morgan on the x-ray tests done earlier in the day. A GI series showed no abnormality in his esophagus or stomach.
    "That's good to hear."
    I was about to say goodbye when Mr. Morgan shot upright in bed. His eyes widened. His jaw fell slack. His chest began to heave violently.
    "What's wrong, Mr. Morgan?"
    He shook his head, unable to speak, desperately taking in breaths.
    I tried to think but couldn't. The encyclopedia had vanished. My palms became moist, my throat dry. I couldn't move. My feet felt as if they were fixed to the floor.
    "This man seems to be in distress," a deep voice said.
    I spun around. Behind me was a man in his forties, with short black hair, dark eyes, and a handlebar mustache. "John Burnside," he said. "I trained here a number of years ago and was by to see some old friends. I'm a cardiologist in Virginia."
    With his handlebar mustache and trimmed hair, Burnside looked like a figure from the Civil War. I remembered that a famous general of that name had fought in that conflict. Burnside deftly took the stethoscope from my pocket and placed it over Mr. Morgan's chest. After a few short seconds, he held the bell of the instrument over Mr. Morgan's heart and then removed the earpieces from his ears. "Here, listen."
    I heard something that sounded like a spigot opened full blast, then closed for a moment, and opened again, the pattern repeated over and over. "This gentleman just tore through his aortic valve," Burnside said. "He needs the services of a cardiac surgeon. Pronto."
    Dr. Burnside stayed with Mr. Morgan while I raced to find a nurse. She told another nurse to stat page the surgery team and ran back with me, the resuscitation cart in tow. Dr. Burnside quickly inserted an airway through Mr. Morgan's mouth and the nurse began to pump oxygen via an ambu bag. Other nurses arrived. The cardiac surgery resident appeared. Together we rushed Mr. Morgan to the OR. Dr. Burnside said goodbye. I thanked him.
    I returned to the Baker and sat for several minutes at the nurses' station. I was in a daze. The event seemed surreal—enjoying a first conversation with one of my patients, then, like an earthquake, Mr. Morgan's sudden upheaval, then the deus ex machina appearance of Dr. Burnside. I felt the weight of the cards in my pocket. Straight A's when I was a student, play-acting. Now, in the real world, I gave myself an F.
    I forced myself to go about my chores through the rest of the evening: checking the potassium level of a patient with diarrhea; adjusting the insulin dose for a diabetic whose blood sugar was too high; ordering another two units of blood to be