The first nurse who saw the test results couldn’t hold back her tears.  Her companion had slightly more control, but we all could see the tremble of his lip as he quickly perused the file.

In the hospital bed just inside the room beside us. Doctor Marcus Annoma slept soundly.  He was a big man, in all respects and attitudes.  Even his snoring, the regular sounds muffled slightly by his bushy mustache, sounded like the product of pure testosterone.

We had all been overjoyed when he agreed to join our consulting staff. He had trained in the military, perfected his skills at a top research institution, but he always managed to spend most of his time in a hospital – like ours. We were, of course, one of the top hospitals in the country, if not the world.  We served royalty, the rich and the famous, those who could afford the best.  Our rooms were exquisite and well-decorated, with plenty of natural light and none of the antiseptic green usually seen in hospital rooms.  One patient, an aging rock star, even remarked that the bed was far more comfortable than anything he had at home – and he purchased his own hospital bed to be brought to his mansion.

Dr. Annoma almost immediately became a fixture of the hospital.  He would stride through the hallways, his six-and-a-half foot tall frame towering over the other doctors and nurses.  His deep, booming, hearty voice would echo up and down the halls- especially when he burst into rolls of thunderous laughter.

The man was an instant hit.  He would pause at the nurses’ station and drop a ridiculous dad joke, adding a bald-faced wink to make them all titter in delight.  He’d invite the other doctors out on manly activities like hiking or rock climbing, and would make sure to thank them for any consultations, making them feel wanted.

He was more than just a great oncologist, possibly the greatest cancer doctor in the world.

He was a great man.

Dr. Annoma had never showed concern, fear, or worry, even when patients were on the brink of death.  He would merely ruffle his mustache, nod, and then confidently declare that he’d “have this damn thing licked in no time at all.”  Patients would draw on that utter, unshakable confidence, replacing scared expressions with shaky smiles.  And it always somehow seemed to help.

The nurse brought the chart to me, holding it out like a live snake.  She didn’t have to tell me the results of the biopsy.  Her face betrayed the answer to my unspoken question.

I took the file from the nurse, took a deep breath, did my best to steady my own nerves.  I had known Dr. Annoma for his entire time at the hospital, had grown close to him.  As had we all.  I had volunteered to be the one to deliver the news.

To my surprise, the doctor was awake when I entered the room.  He was sitting up in the bed, gazing down at the morning paper.  A cup of steaming coffee sat on the small table next to the bed, a little vapor trail rising up from the porcelain.  The man was dressed in the typical hospital gown, but he had insisted on wearing his doctor’s white coat as well, making him look almost as if one of the doctors was playing a joke by sitting in the bed.

Dr. Annoma glanced up at me as I stepped in.  I was doing my best to keep my face straight, but I could feel my expression cracking.  He set the paper down on his lap, his gaze fixed on me.

I nodded to him, but didn’t waste any time on small talk.  The man didn’t deserve that.  “The test is back,” I spoke up, holding up the folder, opening it up to confirm the diagnosis.  “And I’m afraid it’s bad news.  It looks like the tumor is cancer; it’s likely metastasized by now.”

I didn’t know what I had expected.  Perhaps I was thinking that the man would crumble, or shut down at this terrible news.  But Dr. Annoma just gave me a single brisk nod, a military nod.  He reached out and picked up his coffee cup, his big hand wrapping around the entire cup.  He took a sip, careful not to dip his mustache into the hot liquid.

“Ah,” he said, after lowering the cup from his lips.

“Finally!  A real challenge.”

“Oh, hey!  Over here!  Honey, you’re late!  I’m already on my second cosmo!”

“Yeah, sorry.  Traffic was crazy.  Valentine’s day, you know.  All the panicked husbands rushing out at the last minute to buy up any remaining flowers and chocolate.”

“You know, hon, you’re always so pessimistic.  I know you’ve been single for a while, now, but isn’t it time to get back on that horse?”

“Look, could we talk about something else?  Isn’t it kind of a cliche for us to be here, two single gals getting drinks, and to just be talking about men?”

“It’s still a point, hon.”

“Yeah, I know.  I just haven’t met anyone yet.”

“Ah, but I’ve got the perfect guy for you!  He’s a little bit older, and one of his eyes tends to roll around a bit, but he’s totally a sweetheart…”

“Please, no.  Just – okay, have you ever heard of the Bechdel test?”

“Isn’t that a type of sauce?”

“No, that’s bechamel.”

“Ooh, yeah, it’s really creamy!  I love getting that with pasta, even though I always end up hating myself for it later when I’m on the scale.”

“Er, sure.  No, the Bechdel test.  It’s a way of analyzing movies.”

“I usually use IMDB.”

“Shut it and drink your cosmo.  No, the Bechdel test is supposed to check whether a movie is balanced in terms of gender.  To pass the test, a movie has to have a conversation between two named female characters that isn’t about a male character.”

“Well, that’s easy!  I bet most movies have that.”

“No, you’d be surprised.  A lot of them either don’t name enough female characters, or all the female conversations are about men, and nothing else.”

“Okay, hon, I’ll believe you.  But what’s your point?”

“My point?  I feel like every conversation with you fails the Bechdel test.”

“I don’t-“

“I mean, every single conversation is about men, or dates!  Maybe we’ll chat a little about our work or something, but we basically just get together and gossip over men.”

“But you gotta look at the situation, too!  Where do we meet up?”

“Well, at a bar…”

“That’s right.  And has anything interesting happened at work?”

“Well, no…”

“Uh huh.  And even more than that – what day is today?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day…”

“Exactly.”

“Fine.  So you’re saying that it’s the circumstances causing us to fail the Bechdel test right now.”

“Dear, I’m saying that if you had a man in your life, maybe you wouldn’t be so hung up on tests and such like this!  And that’s why I think this guy would totally be perfect for you.  Just let me set you two up.”

“Ugh, fine.  If it will get you off my back.”

“Ooh, I can’t wait!  Now here.  Drink up.”

The wind was brutal, whipping around the corners of the concrete jungle with a howl of rage as it sought to escape, back to the freedom of the open plains.  I hadn’t been prepared for the wind, and it cut through my overcoat as if it was nothing more than a thin shirt.

Nonetheless, I kept my eyes open, ever-searching, always on the move.  I had to stay alert.

Down at my wrist, my watch was ticking away.  The tiny clicks as the second hand swung around were gone, torn away by the wind, but I could still hear each increment as though a shock was surging through my body.

I had to time this perfectly.

Behind me, I could hear cries at the door, the sound of heavy bodies slamming against wood.  The men were already at the room of my hotel suite, throwing their weight against the door frame in hopes of cracking the locking mechanism.

They didn’t stand a chance – at least, not with just a shoulder or a kick.  I had done my reconnaissance well.  I knew that the doors here were made of solid-core oak.  They weren’t going to yield to anything less than a battering ram.

The seconds were still ticking away.  I stared down, knowing that my time was running out.

I’d staged a rehearsal a couple of weeks ago, with little more than a rock thrown through a jewelry store window and a “borrowed” police radio to announce that the figure was on the roof.  The police had a helicopter.  It took eight minutes for the chopper to arrive.

I had under two minutes left.

Staring down, distance stretched away towards the vanishing point.  The ground.  It was night, too dark to see the people hustling up and down the sidewalks twenty stories below me.  I could, however, see the lights of the cars, tiny little mechanical bugs trying to find their way around the maze of gridlock.

From this spot, in the heart of downtown, it took nearly forty minutes to reach the airport.  That wasn’t a viable option.  It would never beat a helicopter.

The cries behind me were getting louder – and they were accompanied by a sound I didn’t want to hear.  Wood was splintering.  I didn’t know whether I’d gotten a room with a cracked door, or if perhaps all of those donuts the officers had been eating were giving them extra bulk to throw at the door, but they were getting through.

I didn’t have to look down at my watch.  My time was almost up.

My feet were clad in leather boots, well broken in and nearly silent on most surfaces.  They were also smooth on the soles, sacrificing a bit of grip in exchange for not leaving any mark behind me.  Currently, those boots were balancing on a seven inch stone ledge.

Another splintering crack.  I glanced to my left.  The window was just a couple of feet away.  I could take two steps to my left, toss the bag slung under my arm back inside, and then follow it…

…to what?  To the waiting arms of the police.  To being caught red-handed with the evidence, to a guaranteed ten year prison sentence.  And ironically, I wouldn’t have the money for a lawyer.  No country club prison for me.  I’d be behind the bars with the real heavy hitters.  I wouldn’t make it a year.

No, I couldn’t go back.  I had to move forward, as risky as it might be.

On my wrist, my watch buzzed, sending a jolt into my skin.

Time’s up.

I stepped off the ledge.

As I fell, I glanced off to my right.  I could hear the faint thwop of rotors as the police helicopter began to close in on the location.  But they weren’t quite close enough yet.  Their spotlight couldn’t see me as I fell.

Down, down I dropped, the wind rushing past my face and making me squint.  I had practiced this before, but I still knew that it would hurt.  I had to be ready.

I hit the top of the aboveground train just as it came around the corner, shooting along on its track, eighteen stories above the ground.  Its howl was loud enough to drown out my own cry as I landed heavily on the roof.

I’d just barely made it.  I was on top of the first car.

I grappled for a moment, scrambling to gain purchase, making sure I wouldn’t slide off that metal skin.  My hand checked beneath my coat, ensuring that the bag was still there.  I hadn’t lost it.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized that I had been holding.  But I wasn’t clear yet.  There was a tunnel coming up, one that would leave me a splatter on the stone.  I had one more jump to make.

I glanced over the side, watching the roofs go rushing past.  I could see my target building, rapidly approaching.  I pulled in one more deep breath.

My watched buzzed again.

I threw myself off the train.