Read Online Sacred Serenity (Lotus House Book 2) by Audrey Carlan - Free Book Online
Authors: Audrey Carlan
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remaining eight are first-year students like you. It’s good to partner with someone further along in the program. Maybe we can pair up.”
Landen set his hand on top of mine and squeezed. At first touch, I thought it was a simple gesture of solidarity, but the longer he held my hand and didn’t let it go, the more anxious I became. Was he interested in me? I smiled softly and tugged on my hand but not too hard. The last thing I wanted to do was upset him or put him off. I needed a partner, and Landen was not only a year ahead of me, but he was also the teacher’s assistant. That had to mean he was talented or the instructor wouldn’t have chosen him.
I faced him. “That would be great, Landen. Thank you.”
“Awesome. Ah, there’s the old man now.”
In the center of the front of the class was a wooden desk and beside that, a podium with a mic. Since the class was small and we hadn’t spread out too much, the teacher likely wouldn’t need the mic. Professor O’Brien shuffled to the desk and dropped his shoulder bag on the solid oak surface with a heavy thud. Whatever he had inside must have been heavy because the noise echoed off the walls of the mostly empty room.
My instructor was much younger than I expected. He couldn’t have been more than in his late forties, which was strange, since the information I’d found out on him stated he’d been teaching for over twenty years. Either he looked good for his age, or the timeline was off. He was very tall, easily a few inches over six feet, had a bit of weight around the middle but wore it well. His hair was curly, dark brown, shaggy around the sides in that cool, older gentleman way that attracted women of all ages. He had on a pair of silver-rimmed glasses that magnified his light eyes.
The professor walked around his desk and leaned on the front, his hands bracing on the edge as he crossed his legs. On his feet were a well-worn pair of burgundy Vans. I almost snickered. The man wore a white lab coat that spoke of his stature in the medical community, not to mention the UCSF Medical Center badge dangling from the coat pocket that demanded respect. Yet, he wore a shoe the local teen skaters would wear. I enjoyed unique oddities from others as I typically felt a little out of the norm myself.
Dr. O’Brien gripped the desk’s edge and glanced at each member of the team. When his gaze hit me, he jerked back, took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket, and put them back on. Again, his eyes met mine. He frowned, opened his mouth, and shook his head as if he were shaking off a memory or something he didn’t want to think about.
“Welcome to the Joint UC Berkeley-UC San Francisco Medical Program. You have been chosen because you are the best in your fields of study. This five-year program is intense. There will be many nights where you will find your ass sitting in the very chair you’re in now, only for a full twenty-four hours. Some days you will be helping at the hospital in an assistant capacity to the doctors. They may have you run to the supply room, take blood pressures, set up IVs, listen to heartbeats, check pulses, etc. Right now, most of you are peons. In five years, you will be doctors.”
He scanned the crowd again looking at every student one at a time. By the time he got to me, his eyes were hard, cold, and sharp. I shivered trying to shake the sense of unease.
“This program is going to set you up for the rest of your career. Consider it medical boot camp because, some days and nights, that’s how it’s going to feel. If you cannot keep up or handle the level of commitment this program entails”—he lifted his hand and pointed at the double doors with the shining red “EXIT” sign glowing above it—“there’s the door. Use it. You have five minutes to make your decision.”
I’d never heard a room so quiet. A raindrop landing on the roof would have sounded like an atomic blast. Not a single
Landen set his hand on top of mine and squeezed. At first touch, I thought it was a simple gesture of solidarity, but the longer he held my hand and didn’t let it go, the more anxious I became. Was he interested in me? I smiled softly and tugged on my hand but not too hard. The last thing I wanted to do was upset him or put him off. I needed a partner, and Landen was not only a year ahead of me, but he was also the teacher’s assistant. That had to mean he was talented or the instructor wouldn’t have chosen him.
I faced him. “That would be great, Landen. Thank you.”
“Awesome. Ah, there’s the old man now.”
In the center of the front of the class was a wooden desk and beside that, a podium with a mic. Since the class was small and we hadn’t spread out too much, the teacher likely wouldn’t need the mic. Professor O’Brien shuffled to the desk and dropped his shoulder bag on the solid oak surface with a heavy thud. Whatever he had inside must have been heavy because the noise echoed off the walls of the mostly empty room.
My instructor was much younger than I expected. He couldn’t have been more than in his late forties, which was strange, since the information I’d found out on him stated he’d been teaching for over twenty years. Either he looked good for his age, or the timeline was off. He was very tall, easily a few inches over six feet, had a bit of weight around the middle but wore it well. His hair was curly, dark brown, shaggy around the sides in that cool, older gentleman way that attracted women of all ages. He had on a pair of silver-rimmed glasses that magnified his light eyes.
The professor walked around his desk and leaned on the front, his hands bracing on the edge as he crossed his legs. On his feet were a well-worn pair of burgundy Vans. I almost snickered. The man wore a white lab coat that spoke of his stature in the medical community, not to mention the UCSF Medical Center badge dangling from the coat pocket that demanded respect. Yet, he wore a shoe the local teen skaters would wear. I enjoyed unique oddities from others as I typically felt a little out of the norm myself.
Dr. O’Brien gripped the desk’s edge and glanced at each member of the team. When his gaze hit me, he jerked back, took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket, and put them back on. Again, his eyes met mine. He frowned, opened his mouth, and shook his head as if he were shaking off a memory or something he didn’t want to think about.
“Welcome to the Joint UC Berkeley-UC San Francisco Medical Program. You have been chosen because you are the best in your fields of study. This five-year program is intense. There will be many nights where you will find your ass sitting in the very chair you’re in now, only for a full twenty-four hours. Some days you will be helping at the hospital in an assistant capacity to the doctors. They may have you run to the supply room, take blood pressures, set up IVs, listen to heartbeats, check pulses, etc. Right now, most of you are peons. In five years, you will be doctors.”
He scanned the crowd again looking at every student one at a time. By the time he got to me, his eyes were hard, cold, and sharp. I shivered trying to shake the sense of unease.
“This program is going to set you up for the rest of your career. Consider it medical boot camp because, some days and nights, that’s how it’s going to feel. If you cannot keep up or handle the level of commitment this program entails”—he lifted his hand and pointed at the double doors with the shining red “EXIT” sign glowing above it—“there’s the door. Use it. You have five minutes to make your decision.”
I’d never heard a room so quiet. A raindrop landing on the roof would have sounded like an atomic blast. Not a single
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