An excerpt from “Real Medicine, Unreal Stories: Lessons and Insights from Clinical Practice.”

The dinner tables had been cleared away and a mellow instrumental playlist floated softly in the background. Thad Brigham reclined in his chair, a pleased grin appearing on his face as he observed his daughters seated at the table.

“You two always manage to revive the spirit in this old house,” he remarked.

Madison, or Maddie as she was known to everyone, offered a cheeky grin. “We’re here for the momentous occasion, don’t forget? Someone’s about to burst.”

Avery, her heavily pregnant sister, raised her eyes from the jigsaw puzzle she was assembling on the table. “Gee, appreciate the reminder. As if the watermelon attached to my belly wasn’t hint enough.”

Thad let out a hearty laugh. “Hey, don’t dismiss it. You’re making this home feel alive once more.”

Maddie turned to Thad. “So, Dad, what’s this new thriller you’re working on? You’ve been so vague about it for weeks.”

Thad’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “I just wrapped up Chapter One last night. Want to hear it?”

Maddie arched an eyebrow. “Are you genuinely asking a newly minted family doctor if she wants to read your medical fiction? That’s bold.”

“Oh, come on,” Thad replied. “Be kind. It’s just a first draft. And remember, it’s more about inspiration than accuracy.”

He handed her the crisp printed sheets. Maddie sighed dramatically but accepted the bundle. Avery continued her puzzling, half-listening.

Maddie began reading aloud, her voice steady, her eyes narrowing as she scanned through the text.

“‘The sun hadn’t yet risen when Dr. Flores sneaked into the alley, her coat pulled tight against the chill. A newborn wailed in the darkness, the mother too frightened to step forward. Another border crossing gone awry.’ Hmm.”

She paused. “Wait. Flores? Isn’t she undocumented herself? How is she licensed to practice in the U.S.?”

“It’s fiction,” Thad replied, raising his hands in defense.

“Yeah, but that’s not how it works. You can’t just invent licensed physicians with… unbelievable backstories.”

“Why not? It’s not a documentary.”

“Because it loses authenticity,” Maddie said, flipping the page. “And… hold on. A 20-year-old med student performing an emergency C-section in a tent? Come on, Dad.”

Thad chuckled, unfazed. “You think it’s too implausible?”

“No. I think it’s nuts.”

“Well, thanks for the support,” Thad replied dryly.

Maddie shook her head but smiled. “I’m not saying don’t write it. Just… a few more journal articles and factual checks wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“I do my homework,” Thad stated. “Besides, much of what I write aims to capture an emotion. Truth isn’t always based on fact. Emerson said, ‘Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.’”

Maddie leaned back, crossing her arms. “But what makes you believe you can write from the viewpoint of an undocumented Latina, or a homeless veteran, or someone grappling with opioid dependence? You’ve never had those experiences.”

Thad nodded slowly. “Good point. I can’t experience everything, no. But I’ve dedicated my life to treating patients who have. I’ve listened, read, pondered. That has to count for something.”

“But it still isn’t you.”

“No, it’s not. But that doesn’t mean I can’t attempt to comprehend. Just like Springsteen.”

Maddie wore a deer-in-the-headlights look. “What does Bruce have to do with this?”

“You recall that concert we attended?”

“Yeah. Giant Stadium. Incredible.”

“And remember when he stepped into the audience, selecting signs people held up, choosing songs he hadn’t performed in years?”

“Thundercrack,” Maddie said, a gentle smile appearing.

“Yes. That song likely held significance for him when he penned it. Spotting that sign reminded him of that spark. That’s why.”

He pointed to his chest. “This,” he said, tapping his heart, “is the reason I write. The same reason I practiced medicine all those years. The same reason you’re doing it now. We’re all trying to keep that flame alive.”

Avery glanced up, pausing from her puzzle. “So… basically, you’re saying writing is akin to medicine—mostly heart, with a sprinkle of fact-checking.”

Thad laughed. “Something close to that.”

At that moment, Sandy, Thad’s wife, popped her head into the dining room.

“Thad? Quoting musicians again?”

“Only the legends.”

She rolled her eyes fondly. “Well, remember this: Steve Winwood wrote ‘Sometimes I