Picture of Dominic WangDominic Wang is a medical student in the Class of 2021 at Western University


My usual Sunday morning plans to catch up on last week’s lectures were mixed with a dash of anticipation for a taste of a new city’s coffee scene. All this, with the blue backpack.

Heading out, my eye was immediately caught by a man at the bus stop. He was singing and dancing in a style reminiscent of a grainy ‘50s film, but was wandering dangerously into the middle of the road. I considered my options as I drew closer: do I stop him, or do I keep walking? All this, with the blue backpack.

Our eyes met. We both nodded. He strolled up with a grin on his face. We exchanged the usual greetings. Then, he asked it: “Are you a med student?” We were suddenly talking about his dancing, and how he may have been drinking, and how he may have wanted to study at Western, and how he may have been abused as a child, and how he may have schizophrenia. I pulled out my phone, gave him the time for the next bus, and continued to my stop.

As I was leaving the bus, I suddenly heard a crash behind me. I turned and saw two cars rammed against one another with no one in the cars moving.


No one had screamed. Everyone was staring at the scene. No phones were out, no sirens in the air. I kept walking to the coffee shop. Pulling out my laptop, I started to read about the inheritance pattern of PKU.

. . . . .

I had just finished my first exam. After sleeping at 2 AM and waking up at 6, that ‘end-of-the-week’ quiz could wait. I was walking with a friend when he was stopped by an old buddy. I turned to the buddy’s friend to fill the silence while the two caught up. We exchanged the usual greetings. Then, he said it: “So you’re a med student.” Yes, I am. “So you think you’re better than everybody else.”

The rest of conversation completely swerved from medicine. I don’t remember what we talked about. And I didn’t remember to do that quiz.

All this, with the blue backpack.


Note: All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.