“So, tell us, Holly,” the examiner says. “Why are you applying to medical school?”
And she’s there again, eight years old on a hot summer night, their parents away, and she’s giggling nervously as Tom and his friends fool around on the roof of the house, and suddenly nobody is laughing anymore, and she’s kneeling by Tom in the garden, his blood on her hands, thinking “I don’t know how to fix this. Please. Please. I need to know how to fix this.”
She looks the examiner straight in the eyes. “I guess I’ve always been interested in science,” she says.
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