The day proceeded as most others do; the long hallway just outside the laboratory – from which neat rows of offices branched – laid still. Each door – most shut, some cracked, none ever fully open – housed behind it a pathologist: a “doctor’s doctor” (as they were sometimes called), experts in the diagnosis of diseases. Each office door had beside it a small plaque upon which the respective pathologist’s name was engraved; among them, were plaques belonging to a Dr. Muck, a Dr. Shapiro, a Dr. Ivanov, and a Dr. Camici.  

     Dr. Muck’s office sat at the far end of the hallway – just before the exit sign that led to a dingy passage which eventually led outdoors; it deposited you at the back entrance of the hospital, the side nobody ends up unless they know exactly where they are going. Dr. Muck was a small and painfully intelligent man; he walked briskly and always took the most direct path. It was his manner to nod his head sideways – ear to shoulder – in greeting or upon reaching a conclusion. “Muck” was short for a longer name that no one in the laboratory could remember – or, even if they could, pronounce correctly. He was the only neuropathologist among the group, and so, was often consulted for peculiar diseases of the brain – to which he could usually diagnose after peering into the microscope for less than five seconds; with a nod of his head he would say, “looks like lymphoma.”

     Toward the center of the room (close to the receptionist’s desk), was the office of Dr. Shapiro. His door was littered with satirical illustrations he had found in magazines and subsequently cut out and stuck there permanently. Dr. Shapiro squatted behind his microscope – door shut – with a large, uneven stack of work beside him. His assistants called him the “mad scientist” – not to his face, of course; he muttered to himself as he worked. When he spoke, he did so loudly, and had this way of letting people know when a patient was diagnosed with a particularly nasty disease: “Last Christmas,” he would say; or, “Last Fourth of July,” if it was summer. This past February, one unfortunate patient got a, “Last Groundhog Day” diagnosis from Dr. Shapiro. His office sat directly across from Dr. Shen’s; they tried not to open their doors at the same time.

     The Russian doctor was sandwiched between Dr. Shapiro and Dr. Camici’s offices. Dr. Ivanov – everyone called him “Dr. Ivan” – was an older gentleman who had moved to the United States from the Soviet Union after finishing his residency as a young man. He spoke with a thick accent and gave constructive criticism in such a direct manner that most assistants struggled to find the “constructive” part. In all the years he spent working at the hospital, he had managed to learn the names of only the handful of people whom he liked. All others were referred to as “ladies”; he would walk into the laboratory and greet everyone – men and women alike – with, “Hello, laydees.” You would know Dr. Ivan liked you if he granted you access to a story from his life – it was usually the same story: when he was a resident in the Soviet Union he performed autopsies without gloves; after he “ran the bowel” (opened the intestines with a pair of scissors and cleaned it) his hands would smell like sheet for days.

     Dr. Camici – Italian by birth, American in spirit – was a dermatopathologist (skin doctor). The skin doctors were notoriously particular; so, in comparison to her peers –in comparison to most pathologists, actually – she was remarkably laid back. She liked to steal baggy scrubs from the O.R. and pair them with long, multicolored cardigans that flowed behind her as she walked; this made her appear – to more than one of the assistants – as a witch in disguise as a doctor. Her office – if you managed to enter it at all; she liked to tape confusing messages regarding the status of her meetings on her door – was an explosion of things: paper, glass slides, stick-figure drawings, half-opened books, half-eaten food, and various other trinkets. Her office was so cluttered, things appeared to crawl up the wall and across the ceiling. On the back wall – if your eye was sharp enough to see it – there was a quote: a cluttered desk is a sign of genius.

     The pathologists had at least one thing in common: they preferred to work with the disease rather than the diseased.

     It was nearing the end of the day and the pathologists were glued to their microscopes – fixated on the images therein and desperately trying to finish their work on time – when the strobe lights began to flash and an announcement was heard over the loud speaker: CODE RED – WEST WING – THIRD FLOOR. Fires are not uncommon in a hospital. Since the laboratory was isolated in the basement of the east wing, the announcement struck a sense of urgency into absolutely no one. It wasn’t until the announcer added, “THIS IS NOT A DRILL, ALL HOSPITAL STAFF PLEASE EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY,” that the pathologists broke contact with their microscopes. They reluctantly opened their doors and poked their heads out to look at each other in confusion.

     Dr. Muck was the first to leave, seeing how his office was closest to the exit. Everyone else begrudgingly followed suit (it is not the worst idea to follow the smartest one). The pathologists formed a single file line in the hallway; each one asked the doctor in front of them if they knew where they were going. Dr. Shapiro had the faintest recollection that – in case of emergencies – they were supposed to gather just outside the daycare center across the street. The message made its way down the line; however, by the time it reached Dr. Gracie (the various accents among them did not help maintain clarity) she was told, “We are going to daycare.” And so, they began their journey outside.

     It was a bright, hot day. As they filed out of the building, each pathologist raised his or her hand to shield his or her eyes from the sun – except Dr. Ivan, who squinted stubbornly into it. They followed Dr. Shapiro who was following Dr. Muck – now remarkably far ahead of them – across the street to the daycare center. Dr. Shen found the whole event an opportune time for exercise; she pumped her arms and marched gently.

     Upon reaching their destination, the pathologists formed a sort of irregular half circle, facing the hospital with uncertainty and extreme individual discomfort. Dr. Shen continued the walk and began doing laps around the daycare center. Dr. Camici joined her, but gave up after one lap, and wandered to an empty bench where she sat down and stared off into space. Dr. Shapiro eyed the hospital with intensity, searching it for any traces of smoke, and willing it to let them back inside. Dr. Muck traveled deep into his own mind to compose the final diagnosis for the case he was working on before the interruption; he nodded his head sideways when he had finished. The remaining doctors assumed creative angles that allowed them to stand without facing anyone else directly.

     Eventually, the entire hospital was outside, chatting in lazy formations and with occasional laughter. Spotting the crowd from a distance, an opportunistic ice cream truck pulled into the edge of the parking lot; messy lines of people started to form in front of it. The pathologists watched as the workers funneled toward the truck; it had a large plastic cow standing on its roof. “Look at them moo-ve,” Dr. Shapiro said loudly. Dr. Shen decided to expand her walking route and began encircling both the daycare center and the ice cream truck; Dr. Camici watched her.

     After some time had passed – enough time for more than half of the hospital staff to have gobbled down heaping portions of ice cream – Dr. Ivan decided he had waited long enough. Throwing his hands into the air he announced, “I do nut care if I burn to death,” and broke formation; the rest of the doctors watched him, but did not move. As Dr. Ivan was nearing the entrance, a person emerged from the hospital and approached him; the pathologists watched their conversation with intense curiosity; Dr. Muck edged closer to the street. When they heard, “All clear!” Dr. Muck sprinted, almost beating Dr. Ivan to the door. Rounding the corner of the ice cream truck, Dr. Shen spotted the other pathologists filing back inside; she turned sharply and cut through the crowd, nearly knocking the cone from a young nurse’s hand, mid-lick. Dr. Camici sat on her bench and watched them for a while; she marveled at the speed with which Dr. Shen had changed course; eventually, she stood up and strolled back. Meanwhile, the rest of the pathologists scurried into their respective offices and shut their doors.