I can’t run on the trail through the Havenbrook woods without thinking of Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Mom used to recite it from memory to me and my sister as a bedtime story. Her voice is in my head now as my feet hit rhythmically on the soft dirt.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

I know whose woods these are.

I stop at my favorite clearing, the space where tall tree trunks seem to step back and make room for something between them, almost like a secret meeting spot where a speaker would stand and present to the crew around him. It’s a good place for children to play, if they were ever allowed to venture alone into the forest. But I only know of a handful of runners who come into these woods, traversing the path I’m pretty sure I created with my sneakers. Everyone else who ventures out here isn’t here for long or they’re dead.

Rumors about this land go back further than Havenbrook. During the Civil War, wounded soldiers from a railroad attack nearby were brought to a farmhouse at the edge of the trees. The ones who died were buried here.

Over time, the story grew teeth, though. The farmhouse became a prison, the soldiers escapees, dragging their bleeding legs through the dirt to die under these very trees. If you stand quietly enough, they say, you can still hear someone calling for a doctor.

Occasionally when I run in the early morning and fog shares space with me, I hear a whistling I can’t place among the trees, and I guess, if you tried really hard, you could make that sound a cry for help. I picture myself back in Civil War times, a doctor tending to his patients. And I think of how rewarding it must’ve felt to mend the broken by war, those selflessly sacrificing themselves for the many.

An owl’s hoot brings me back into the present. I resume my run but stop again when I get to the tallest hill on my route. It’s the one that affords me a view of the entire campus, assembled like a Lego village. Your eyes can’t help but snag on one house, the biggest one, set apart from the others. The Surgeon’s house. Nah. It’s not a house. It’s a dwelling. And it’s not just the rumors anymore. The Surgeon’s house has a mystique you simply can’t make up. It’s otherworldly. It’s the architecture—the height, the windows, the turret—but it’s also the feeling you get when you look at it. There’s power in that house, real power. I don’t even realize I’m smiling until I turn and keep running.

I cut through the woods, deciding not to visit the graves like I usually do, and land on the paved path, back to the order, away from the untamed. It’s time for coffee.

“Dr. Graham, your usual?” Michael, the barista, asks when I step in, and I’m hit with one of my favorite scents: freshly ground beans.

My usual is Night Shift, a dark roast, always black, but this morning, I think of the woman in my bed, who will want the seasonal special.

“Actually, Michael, give me the Havenbrook Harvest. Black. And I’m also gonna get a Harvest latte.”

His eyebrows rise, and I tip my head forward in silent acknowledgment. When people know you, your coffee order tells them more than you might want them to know.

“You got a busy day today?” Michael asks, putting the charges on my tab.

I’m not the only one in here—medical people are always getting coffee—but it’s quiet enough right now that conversation can happen.

“Always. You?” I ask.

“Like you, busy doing God’s work.”

“Sometimes I think you’re more of a steward than I am.”

“There is little that isn’t improved by a cup of coffee,” he philosophizes, handing me my black Harvest.

“True.”

I like Michael. He treats me like I’m just one of the guys, even when I’m not in shorts.

“This one’s not as strong as Night Shift. Come back if it doesn’t work for you.”

I nod and hold up the drink in a cheers gesture. With two Harvests in hand, I head home. By the time I get there, I’ve drunk half the Harvest, and Michael was right. It’s water in a fall costume, trying its damnedest to be pretty.

But I stop regretting my choice when I get to my bedroom and am met by a pair of spectacular breasts. Kelsey stretches like a cat, arms straight in the air, the sheets pooling at her naked waist. For three seconds, I imagine getting back in bed with her, letting the coffee, or what’s pretending to be coffee, cool on the nightstand, but I’ve got work to do.

Instead, I extend her latte.

“You got me coffee?” she says with a smile that breaks my heart. I’ve learned a lot about Kelsey in the past few months, and it doesn’t seem like she has anyone in her life that treats her well. I think of Adrian and Maren. I don’t think I’m cut out for a relationship like theirs, but I like doing things for people that matter to me. She matters.

“What’s actually in that cup is up for debate.”

She takes a tentative sip. “It’s a Havenbrook Harvest,” she says. Her delight tells me she’s pleased I remembered what she liked. “You’re a good man, Nathan Graham.” And I can’t fucking help myself. I lean down, shove my hand into her messy hair, and kiss her hard on the lips. Havenbrook Harvest doesn’t taste half bad from her mouth.

I manage to pull myself away, which is a heroic endeavor given the sound that rumbles up from her throat.

“I’ve gotta shower and get to the OR,” I tell her and turn around before I lose all my self-control.

The water runs cool as I step in and immediately soap up. I have about three minutes before I need to be dressed, seven before I walk out the door to see my patient before he goes back to the OR. I close my eyes and count to sixty, letting the water run over my body.

“Water to one hundred and ten degrees,” Kelsey calls, and the shower instantly starts warming.

“What are you doing?” I ask. She’s just entered the bathroom and turned my cool shower into a sauna.

In answer, her hand slides around my waist and up my torso as she presses those very fine breasts against my back. “What does it feel like I’m doing?”

A man can only resist so much. I turn around and grip her face lightly, the scent of a whole season rising in the steam. This is the way I want to experience Havenbrook Harvest.

“I have five minutes, Kelsey. I mean it.”

“I only need three,” she says, and pushes her pelvis into mine.

Three minutes later, I’m stepping from the shower a very satisfied man. Who needs coffee when you can have Kelsey in the morning?

When I step into my bedroom, I see my scrubs laid out on my bed beside my lab coat. She set them out for me. I swallow against the lump in my throat and throw on my clothes and slip out the door before I face Kelsey again and confront feelings I’m not ready for. 

As I jog to the hospital, I feel good and then think of how amazing I’ll feel after having a proper morning drink. The coffee shop’s only thirty seconds off my path, so I run back in.

“I got you, man,” Michael says as soon as we make eye contact. I don’t have to say a word. And I’m back on the path within a minute. Damn, I love this place.

“Your patient’s ready for you,” my nurse says when I make it to the nurses’ station in The Suites.

I smile, tuck my coffee behind a computer screen, and head to pre-op holding.

“Mr. Fields. How we doing this morning?” I shake his hand, and he grins, flashing me his remaining teeth.

“Call me Mark,” he says. “Feels fancy down here. They’re treating me like I’m a celebrity or somethin’.”

“That’s the Havenbrook way. We take care of people.”

“It’s nice, doc. I might wanna have more surgeries after this,” he says, looking around.

I smile. We’re both giving each other a gift. It feels right. “Wait until you’re able to eat solid foods on the other side. You’ll never want to leave.”

He licks his lips, and I wonder when this man last had a good meal. I’ll make sure he gets the best while he’s here, but I won’t need to. He’s in The Suites. He’ll automatically get the best, under a shiny silver cloche.

“All right. Everything looks good,” I tell him, patting his leg through the warmed blanket. “They’ll take you back shortly, and we’ll get started.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, doc.”

I smile because I know exactly how he can thank me, but he doesn’t need to worry about that. He just needs to worry about healing well while he’s here, and enjoying a reprieve from the streets after his inguinal hernia repair and one tiny operation that will keep him here longer. Though, for him, that’s the ideal scenario, what he wants. I feel good knowing that he’ll leave here better than when he arrived, much better. And so will someone else.

“Remember, you’ll be inpatient for five or so days, maybe longer if there are any complications.”

Mark tucks his arms behind his head. He doesn’t care what I’m saying anymore. He doesn’t question his length of stay. He’s just taking it in, and I let him.

Back at the nurses’ station, as I’m grabbing my coffee, one of the nurses comes up to me.

“Hey, Erica.” I make it a point to call everyone by their name.

“Dr. Graham, I need to talk to you.” She crosses her arms tightly around her, almost like she’s giving herself a hug. “It’s about Maren.”

I keep the smile on my face, but my body’s not feeling so great anymore. “I’m afraid I’m just about to start an operation. It’ll have to wait.”

“Dr. Graham, I’m concerned. I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

“Like I said, it’ll have to wait. And you will have to keep doing this. Your signature confirms that you will.” I turn away from her, my blood pressure rising, and walk toward the doctors’ lounge. She won’t come in here. Inside, I tip my coffee back. It stings my throat.

I change into a new pair of scrubs and head back to the OR early. I don’t want to be alone with my faults.

“Everything ready for the hernia repair?”

The scrub tech nods. “And the resection.”

“Good. Good.”

Once Mark’s in the room, everything begins. I’m still rattled from Erica, but I won’t think about that now. I will only think of my patient.

Mom’s voice finds me again, carrying the end of the poem with it.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep.