up with a room all to herself, which she did
not mind. In fact she liked the idea of having her own private
suite. But the daily maid service...she wondered if she'd ever get
used to that.
Her high lasted through most of the
following day's orientation lectures, but it began to thin when she
checked in at the student bookstore and received her microscope,
her dissection kit, and a three-foot stack of textbooks and
laboratory workbooks.
The last wisps were shredded by her
first anatomy lecture. The professors at The Ingraham weren't
holding back, weren't about to coddle anyone who might be a little
slow in adjusting. Their attitude was clear: they were addressing
the best of the best, the cream of the intellectual crop, and they
saw no reason why they shouldn't plunge into their subjects and
proceed at full speed. They covered enormous amounts of material in
an hour's time.
Quinn's concentration was taxed to the
limit that first morning. At U. Conn she'd had to put in her share
of crunch hours to get her grades, but all along she'd known she
was somewhere near the high end of the learning curve in her class.
The courses had been pitched to the center of that curve. She'd
sailed through them.
Perhaps the courses here too were
being pitched toward the center of a curve, but Quinn was quite
sure she was not at the upper end of this curve. She hoped she was
at least near the middle. She would not be sailing through these
courses. She'd be rowing. Rowing like crazy.
You're playing with the big boys now,
she told herself
But she'd handle it. She'd take
anything they threw at her and somehow find a way to toss it right
back at them.
Except perhaps a dead human
being.
She'd never really thought about the
fact that a good part of her first year would be spent dissecting a
human cadaver. Human Anatomy Lab had been an abstraction. She'd
grown up on a farm, for God's sake. She'd delivered calves on her
own and helped slaughter chickens, turkeys, and pigs for the table.
And in college she'd dissected her share of worms and frogs and
fish and fetal pigs and even a cat during Comparative Anatomy as an
undergrad. No problem. Well, the cat had posed a bit of a
problem—she'd known it had been a stray, but she couldn't help
wondering if it had ever belonged to someone, if somewhere a child
was still waiting for her kitty to come home. But she'd got past
that.
This was different.
Starting today she'd be dissecting a human being—slicing into,
peeling back, cutting away the tissues of something that once had
been somebody .
Intellectually, she'd been able to handle that, at least until
she'd approached the entrance to the Anatomy Lab, felt the sting of
the cool, dank, formaldehyde-laden air in her nostrils as the
double doors had swung open and closed, and caught a fleeting
glimpse of those rows of large, plastic-sheet-covered forms lumped
upon their tables under the bright banks of
fluorescents.
Suddenly the prospect was no longer
abstract. There were corpses under those sheets and she was going
to have to touch one. Put a knife right into it.
She didn't know if she could. And that
angered her. Why was she being so squeamish?
"Come on, Quinn," Tim said, taking her
elbow. "I'll be right beside you."
"I'll be okay," she said, shaking him
off and straightening herself away from the wall. She was not going
to be led into the lab like some sort of invalid. "I'm fine. It's
just...the smell got to me for a moment."
"Yeah. I know what you mean." Tim
grimaced. "It's pretty bad. But we'd better get used to it. We've
got three afternoons a week in there for the next two
semesters."
"Great." Quinn took a deep breath.
"Okay. Lead on, MacDuff."
"Easy:
Shakespeare— Macbeth —the eponymous character."
"If you say so."
As they pushed through the swinging
doors the formaldehyde hit her like a punch in the nose. Her eyes
watered, her nose began to run. She glanced at Tim. He was blinking
behind his shades and sniffing too.
He smiled at her,
not mind. In fact she liked the idea of having her own private
suite. But the daily maid service...she wondered if she'd ever get
used to that.
Her high lasted through most of the
following day's orientation lectures, but it began to thin when she
checked in at the student bookstore and received her microscope,
her dissection kit, and a three-foot stack of textbooks and
laboratory workbooks.
The last wisps were shredded by her
first anatomy lecture. The professors at The Ingraham weren't
holding back, weren't about to coddle anyone who might be a little
slow in adjusting. Their attitude was clear: they were addressing
the best of the best, the cream of the intellectual crop, and they
saw no reason why they shouldn't plunge into their subjects and
proceed at full speed. They covered enormous amounts of material in
an hour's time.
Quinn's concentration was taxed to the
limit that first morning. At U. Conn she'd had to put in her share
of crunch hours to get her grades, but all along she'd known she
was somewhere near the high end of the learning curve in her class.
The courses had been pitched to the center of that curve. She'd
sailed through them.
Perhaps the courses here too were
being pitched toward the center of a curve, but Quinn was quite
sure she was not at the upper end of this curve. She hoped she was
at least near the middle. She would not be sailing through these
courses. She'd be rowing. Rowing like crazy.
You're playing with the big boys now,
she told herself
But she'd handle it. She'd take
anything they threw at her and somehow find a way to toss it right
back at them.
Except perhaps a dead human
being.
She'd never really thought about the
fact that a good part of her first year would be spent dissecting a
human cadaver. Human Anatomy Lab had been an abstraction. She'd
grown up on a farm, for God's sake. She'd delivered calves on her
own and helped slaughter chickens, turkeys, and pigs for the table.
And in college she'd dissected her share of worms and frogs and
fish and fetal pigs and even a cat during Comparative Anatomy as an
undergrad. No problem. Well, the cat had posed a bit of a
problem—she'd known it had been a stray, but she couldn't help
wondering if it had ever belonged to someone, if somewhere a child
was still waiting for her kitty to come home. But she'd got past
that.
This was different.
Starting today she'd be dissecting a human being—slicing into,
peeling back, cutting away the tissues of something that once had
been somebody .
Intellectually, she'd been able to handle that, at least until
she'd approached the entrance to the Anatomy Lab, felt the sting of
the cool, dank, formaldehyde-laden air in her nostrils as the
double doors had swung open and closed, and caught a fleeting
glimpse of those rows of large, plastic-sheet-covered forms lumped
upon their tables under the bright banks of
fluorescents.
Suddenly the prospect was no longer
abstract. There were corpses under those sheets and she was going
to have to touch one. Put a knife right into it.
She didn't know if she could. And that
angered her. Why was she being so squeamish?
"Come on, Quinn," Tim said, taking her
elbow. "I'll be right beside you."
"I'll be okay," she said, shaking him
off and straightening herself away from the wall. She was not going
to be led into the lab like some sort of invalid. "I'm fine. It's
just...the smell got to me for a moment."
"Yeah. I know what you mean." Tim
grimaced. "It's pretty bad. But we'd better get used to it. We've
got three afternoons a week in there for the next two
semesters."
"Great." Quinn took a deep breath.
"Okay. Lead on, MacDuff."
"Easy:
Shakespeare— Macbeth —the eponymous character."
"If you say so."
As they pushed through the swinging
doors the formaldehyde hit her like a punch in the nose. Her eyes
watered, her nose began to run. She glanced at Tim. He was blinking
behind his shades and sniffing too.
He smiled at her,
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