Rip didn't break stride, nor did he reach for the note cards in the pocket of his white coat. He knew the number of patients who'd received Jandramycin, their names and diagnoses, and how they'd been at their last follow-up appointments. "Thirtynine counting the patient we put on Jandramycin yesterday." "Oh, that was the woman—" "It's a man. Mr. Rankin is a fifty-one-year-old school principal with sepsis from Staph luciferus, acquired when a cut on his foot from a camping trip became infected. He—" "No need for all that. Thirty-nine. That's what I want to know." The two men walked along in silence, Rip carefully keeping a pace behind his chief. Most doctors in postgraduate programs became good friends with the men and women under whom they trained. By the time a fellowship was over, they had formed a collegial bond. That wasn't the case here, though. From day one, Rip had received the unspoken message: You're here to learn from watching me, but I'm in charge, and don't you forget it.
