4. What the Night Shift Costs

By October, they had developed a pattern. Tuesday evenings, if Linh was not on call, she would appear at the Blue Note Bar. She always sat in the same corner. She always ordered iced tea, never alcohol, because she had early rounds on Wednesday. After his set, Minh would sit across from her and they would talk—sometimes about music, sometimes about medicine, sometimes about nothing in particular. He told her about his family's disappointment, and she listened without offering solutions, which he appreciated. She told him about the patient she had lost the previous winter—a fifteen-year-old with a condition they had caught too late—and he did not say "it wasn't your fault," which she also appreciated. "Do you ever regret becoming a doctor?" he asked one night. Linh considered the question seriously, which was how she considered everything. "No," she said at last. "I regret that medicine isn't good enough yet. That's different." "My father thinks music is a waste of time." "My mother thinks my work schedule is the reason I'm not married." She looked at her iced tea. "Maybe she's not entirely wrong." "You could be married and still have a work schedule." "In theory." She glanced up. "What about you? Is there someone?" "There was," Minh said. "She said I was 'emotionally unavailable because of the guitar.'" He paused. "I think she meant it as a criticism." The corner of Linh's mouth moved. "Was she wrong?" Minh thought about it honestly. "Partially." Outside, the city moved on without them—motorbikes and late-night vendors, the distant sound of a karaoke bar down the street. Inside, the bartender was wiping down glasses and pretending not to listen. "I should go," Linh said. She did not move. "There's another song I want to play you sometime," Minh said. "When it's finished." "What's it about?" He looked at her. "I haven't decided yet." She picked up her bag, finally. "Let me know when you do."