Brett T. Rolle was a cheeky young man with nearly infinite luck. He had been one of those children who glides through life, following one self-indulgent whim after another, leaving all consequences for others to deal with. When he and his buddies put cling film over the toilet bowl in the high school staff restroom, Brett escaped punishment by being removed from school to attend his grandfather’s funeral in Ireland. That funeral, which included a wake with a dead body on display, sparked Brett’s fascination with medicine.

Brett quickly realized that his new interest made teachers and parents somewhat in awe of him and gained him extra protection from consequences like skipping class, gluing the whiteboard eraser to the board, or releasing a field mouse in the staff room. It also earned him support from many in the community who lived vicariously through those who dared to break the bounds of low expectations. Brett wasn’t a particularly great student, but he knew how to dodge unnecessary work, rely on others, and enlist help from fellow students.

Medical school was a nightmare for Brett, as it was for most, but he still managed to avoid work that wasn’t essential for grades or selection, continuing to lean on others. However, the residency was truly taking its toll on him. Nevertheless, Brett found ways to ease his life and have fun. One such way was to buy a hoverboard—a two-wheeled electric skateboard—that allowed him to zip rapidly from class to clinic, and from one wing of the sprawling hospital to another. Narrowly missing other residents or staff as he sped by, Brett earned quite a reputation. He gained a small following of admirers who envied his audacity, but he also drew many raised voices and curses. “That thing is going to kill someone!” yelled an elderly urologist after Brett swooped past. More than one emergency medicine or orthopedics physician had said something along the lines of, “See you soon!”

The only other resident specializing in lifestyle medicine, Linda Radel, was envious of Brett’s easygoing attitude. She was well aware that there was only one position available for that very narrow specialization, and Brett was the only obstacle in her way. Linda spent most of her time feeling utterly exhausted, far past the point where most people would just quietly sob into their coffee. After a particularly grueling day, she was so tired she felt practically numb to her aching feet, the muscle she’d pulled in her back while lifting a patient, and the finger she’d accidentally pricked with a used needle. She barely made it to a spare cot in the on-call room. The sign on the door read “Resident’s Lounge,” which made the staff half-smile at the irony. Most staff called it “The Crash Closet” because, unlike a lounge that conjures up images of comfort and leisure, this was a cramped, dingy space with a set of battered metal lockers, three ancient cots, a dirty metal trash can, and a cabinet containing ragged blankets, a deck of cards missing the queen of hearts, and a tattered copy of Finnegans Wake. Even the ward toilets were more lounge-like than the crash closet, yet it had taken years of protracted fights to secure even this sad space.

The chief objections to the “lounge” came from Housekeeping and a cohort of moralists. Housekeeping wanted no part in keeping it clean and had to be enticed with promises of their own coffee room. The little coterie of moralists was convinced that residents would turn it into a brothel, failing to realize that residents using the crash closet were usually so exhausted that sleep was the only thing on their minds.

When Linda arrived at her cot that evening, she had just enough energy to kick off her shoes, clean her face with a couple of antiseptic wipes, and place her pager on her belly. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Linda jerked awake when her pager buzzed against her skin, pulling her from a dreamless torpor. Groggy, she slipped on her shoes and wiped away a little drool with her sleeve. Still unsteady on her feet, she tripped and fell onto her hands and knees. “Stupid Brett and his stupid skateboard,” she grumbled angrily. She grabbed the hoverboard Brett had left charging near her cot. When it wouldn’t lean against the wall, she shoved it into the trash can and stomped out, muttering that if the stupid toy didn’t kill him first, she would. Brett rolled over and continued to sleep blissfully.

Linda wished Brett would just go away or at least stop being such a jerk. She wouldn’t mind losing the lifestyle medicine spot to someone who was a better student, a more compassionate person, or someone truly passionate about the specialty. What galled her was that she might be sidelined by a poser who cut corners, coasted on others’ efforts, and chose the specialty solely because he figured it would have the least competition.

Brett’s ability to sleep soundly in the lounge through the noise of residents coming and going, falling, or cursing him was usually a benefit, but this time it proved disastrous. Precisely twenty-seven minutes and forty-five seconds after Linda had tossed it into the trash can, the charging hoverboard started to overheat. Its cooling fan quickly sucked in one of Linda’s discarded wipes, causing it to stall. The hoverboard’s management circuit sent a text message to Brett’s phone, asking for immediate action, and the charging circuit went into thermal runaway. Since Brett’s phone was in his locker and he was soundly asleep in the lounge, no one addressed the issue. Soon, smoke billowed from the hoverboard and spilled over the trash can. When bright flames erupted from the batteries, Brett had already been breathing in the toxic fumes long enough to push him from exhausted slumber into a coma. He suffered cardiac arrest just as the hallway’s smoke detectors went off. By the time the fire crew dragged him from the smoke-filled room, Brett was far beyond the point where he would ever again ride a hoverboard, lean on another student or, for that matter, take someone else’s well-earned residency slot.