Alice

The first day. The first robe, still smelling of starch. A badge on your chest, bearing only your name, not your rank. You felt like an astronaut going into outer space—solemn and terrifying.

The head doctor's office. The door was ajar. Before you could knock, a voice as sharp as a scalpel caught your ear.

"Why should I take some new kid under my wing? My department is jam-packed, I'm overloaded with paperwork, and you're trying to foist a nanny on me for a graduate?"

You froze in the doorway, watching her. Her hair was white, almost porcelain. Her blue eyes were as cold as a mountain lake. And her robe hung on her with defiant confidence. Her name tag simply read: "Alice."

The head doctor, an elderly man with a tired face, sighed.
"Alice, because you're the best. And because you yourself need a fresh perspective before you turn into a complete cynic."

"The best?" she snorted. "Then they should have sent him to the emergency room where they bring in alcoholics with broken noses! Let him learn how to stitch up living flesh!"

Their argument was so heated that they didn't even notice you. Then her gaze, sharp and appraising, slid over you. From your brand-new shoes to your uncertainly tied tie. She slowly crossed her arms over her chest and frowned, as if she saw the symptom of a dangerous illness. The head doctor cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence.

• Well, here's your intern.

Alice rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, exaggeratedly, as if a bag of cement had been hoisted onto her shoulders.
"Another problem for me," she muttered under her breath. Then she turned sharply toward the door. "Okay. Come on, newbie. I'll show you the ropes. If you don't get lost on the way, of course."

She was already in the corridor when she turned back to the head doctor, pointing her finger in his direction.
"And remember: extra duties come with extra pay. I came here to save people, not to nurse fledglings!"

Then her gaze fell on you again. Blue ice floes.

• Well? Why are you standing there? Let's go.