Right-side of the Blue Lagoon

Kendricks studied the menu through lightly fogged reading glasses. The laminated pages of the Blue Lagoon's offerings were sticky at the edges—remnants of countless fingers tracing the same path between overpriced appetizers and underwhelming entrées. He didn't need the menu, not really. He already knew what he would order: the most pretentious-sounding item listed. It was his ritual, his test.

Outside, rain pelted the windows of the diner, turning the Arkansas evening into a blur of headlights and neon. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of burnt coffee and industrial-grade disinfectant.

"You ready to order yet, hun?" The waitress—*Darleen*, according to her name tag—appeared at his table, notepad in hand. Her bleached blonde hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, dark roots betraying at least three weeks since her last salon visit.

"Chef's surprise," Kendricks said, closing the menu. "And water. No ice."

Darleen raised an eyebrow. "Chef's surprise? You sure about that? Jimmy ain't in tonight—we got Dr. A covering."

"Doctor?" Kendricks looked up, genuinely curious for the first time since entering the establishment.

"That's what we call him," Darleen said with a shrug. "Don't know his real name. Indian fella. Real quiet. Makes a mean burger, though." She leaned in, conspiratorially. "Between you and me, his stuff's better than Jimmy's any day."

"Chef's surprise it is," Kendricks confirmed, handing her the menu.

As Darleen walked away, commotion erupted at a booth near the back. Two women—one heavily pregnant, the other wearing a denim jacket covered in patches—were engaged in what appeared to be an intensifying argument. The pregnant woman's voice carried across the diner.

"You promised, Becky. You *promised*."

Kendricks slipped his earbuds in and cued up Spotify to "surprise me." The algorithm delivered a song he hadn't heard in nearly a decade—the same one that had played in the cab taking him from his mother's house to the military base before his deployment to Iraq. Before everything changed.

He closed his eyes and let the music drown out the world, his fingers absently tracing the outline of the knife in his pocket.

---

Dr. Nirav Aggarwal checked his watch—10:37 PM. His shift at Memorial ended at six, giving him just enough time to shower, change, and make it to the Blue Lagoon by eight. Four hours of flipping burgers, and he could go home to his sparse apartment, collapse into bed, and prepare for tomorrow's rounds. It wasn't much of a life, but it was his—and more importantly, it was his secret.

He had traded shifts with Jimmy tonight. The regular cook had a daughter's recital to attend, and Nirav was happy to cover. He always was. These four hours in the cramped kitchen were his sanctuary from the pressures of medicine, from the weight of his parents' expectations, from the endless parade of illness and injury that filled his days.

"Order up, Doc," Darleen called through the service window. "Chef's surprise for table 7."

Nirav nodded. He knew better than to speak too much—his accent would betray him. Despite living in America for fifteen years, he couldn't shake the cadence of Mumbai. All it would take was one patient hearing him, one connection made between Dr. Aggarwal, the brilliant cardiovascular surgeon, and the silent short-order cook at the Blue Lagoon.

His parents had sacrificed everything to get him through medical school. Their entire village had celebrated when he was accepted to Johns Hopkins. His mother had sold her wedding jewelry. His father had worked double shifts at the factory. All because of their belief in his destiny.

Nirav pulled Jimmy's special burger mix from the refrigerator. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the container. His own mix was better—everyone said so. But Jimmy was particular about his recipes, insistent that they be followed to the letter when he was away.

A flash of intuition told Nirav to use his own mix. *Trust your instincts*, his father always said. *They may save your life one day.*

But loyalty won out. He grabbed Jimmy's mix and began shaping patties.

---

At table 12, Suzie Walker pressed her hands against her swollen belly, fighting back tears as Becky gathered her things.

"This was a mistake, all of it," Becky said, voice low but firm. "You, me, the baby—I did it to make you happy, to not feel alone. But I feel more alone than I did at the start."

"We're supposed to be at our baby shower right now," Suzie whispered. "Our mothers are waiting."

"Your mother, Suzie. Your baby." Becky stood, shrugging on her denim jacket. "I can't do this anymore. I can't be what you want me to be."

Becky placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table. Suzie reached for it automatically.

"Oh honey, put that away. You know I always have this covered."

Something in Becky's expression hardened. She pushed the money toward Suzie.

"That's the problem, isn't it? You always have everything covered. You always make all the decisions. What we eat, where we live, even this baby—"

"Our baby," Suzie corrected, hands protectively covering her stomach.

"No." Becky shook her head. "Your baby. I'm done, Suzie." She began removing her jewelry—earrings, bracelet, necklace—placing each piece deliberately on the table. "Here. You bought all this anyway."

"Becky, please—"

"I'm sorry." Becky's voice cracked. "I really am. But I can't live someone else's life anymore."

She walked out, the bell above the door jingling with finality, leaving Suzie alone with her untouched food and a collection of discarded jewelry.

---

Kendricks watched the scene unfold despite his music. There was something about human drama that always drew his attention, like gravity pulling objects toward their inevitable collision. He understood the dark-haired woman—Becky—better than she might realize. Sometimes the only way to reclaim yourself was to walk away, even from the things you thought you wanted.

Darleen appeared with his meal—a towering burger on a brioche bun, golden fries arranged in a spiral pattern, a small ramekin of coleslaw, and a mysterious blue sauce in a separate dish.

"Chef's surprise," she announced. "The blue stuff is our Blueridge cheese dressing. Doc's specialty."

Kendricks removed his earbuds, nodding his thanks. He studied the plate with professional detachment, noting the presentation, the attention to detail. Even in this greasy spoon, someone cared enough to make food look appealing. It was a promising start.

He cut the burger in half with surgical precision, examining the cross-section. Medium-rare, just pink enough in the center. He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully.

It was... adequate. Not terrible, not exceptional. The meat lacked seasoning, the texture slightly off. It wasn't the worst burger he'd ever had, but it certainly didn't live up to its pretentious name.

Kendricks tried a fry, then another. Better, but still unremarkable. The coleslaw was standard fare, nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other diners across America.

Finally, he dipped a fry into the blue cheese dressing, bringing it to his lips with measured expectation.

The flavor exploded across his palate—tangy, sharp, with an unexpected depth that spoke of careful fermentation and expert blending. It was extraordinary, utterly at odds with everything else on the plate.

Kendricks dipped another fry, confirming his assessment. The dressing was magnificent, a culinary achievement worthy of respect.

But the burger...

His hand found the knife in his pocket, tracing its outline. A decision had been made.

---

Nirav untied his apron, hanging it on the hook by the back door. His shift was over, and the night had been mercifully quiet. Just a few regulars, the dramatic scene with the lesbian couple, and the silent man in booth 7 who had ordered the Chef's surprise.

That one had bothered him. The man had eaten methodically, betraying no enjoyment, no disgust. Just mechanical consumption, like refueling a vehicle. He had left a minimal tip and departed without a word.

Nirav pushed open the back door, stepping into the alley behind the Blue Lagoon. The rain had stopped, leaving puddles that reflected the security light above the door. He would walk home, as always. The cold night air would clear his head, prepare him for tomorrow's surgeries.

He had gone perhaps ten steps when he sensed someone behind him.

"Doctor A, I presume?"

Nirav turned. The man from booth 7 stood in the shadows, his silhouette eerily still.

"I—I'm not—" Nirav began, instinctively falling back on denial.

"Darleen called you 'Doc,'" the man said, stepping into the light. "And your hands—they're a surgeon's hands. Too precise for a short-order cook."

Up close, Kendricks was unremarkable—average height, average build, average features. Yet something in his eyes made Nirav's heart race. There was an emptiness there, a void where emotion should be.

"What do you want?" Nirav asked, unconsciously stepping backward.

"Your burger," Kendricks said, his voice flat. "It was mediocre. Underseasoned. Texture all wrong."

"I—I'm sorry," Nirav stammered. "I used Jimmy's mix. I should have trusted my instincts."

"Yes," Kendricks agreed. "You should have."

The movement was so fast Nirav barely registered it—a flash of metal, a sharp pressure in his chest. He looked down in confusion at the knife handle protruding from his chest. Directly over his heart.

"Standard procedure," Kendricks said, stepping back. "Clean, efficient, merciful. Consider it a professional courtesy, Doctor."

Pain bloomed, radiating outward from the wound. Nirav staggered backward, one hand instinctively reaching for the knife, the other bracing against the brick wall for support. His medical training told him what this meant: direct cardiac penetration, massive internal bleeding, minutes—perhaps seconds—to live.

Kendricks turned away, apparently satisfied that his work was done. He walked back toward the diner, pausing only to dip his finger into the small container he'd brought with him—a sample of the blue cheese dressing.

"Now this," he murmured, licking his finger clean, "this was extraordinary."

Nirav slumped to the ground, the world going gray at the edges. He wouldn't die here, not like this. With trembling fingers, he pulled out his phone.

Not 911. He couldn't afford the questions, the inevitable discovery of his second life. Instead, he dialed a colleague—Mehta, who owed him a favor and could be trusted to be discreet.

"Ra-Rajiv," he gasped when the call connected. "Behind... Blue Lagoon. Stabbed. Don't call... ambulance."

The phone slipped from his fingers as consciousness began to fade. As darkness enveloped him, a strange calm settled over Nirav. His mother's voice, distant yet clear, echoed in his mind: *Your special heart is a gift from the gods, beta. It will protect you when you need it most.*

His special heart. The one medical anomaly that had shaped his entire existence. The reason his parents had sacrificed everything for his education.

Dextrocardia with situs inversus. His heart was on the right side of his chest, not the left.

Kendricks had stabbed him precisely where a heart should be—but wasn't.

As consciousness slipped away, Nirav's lips curled into the ghost of a smile.

---

Kendricks returned to booth 7, sliding in across from the pregnant woman who still sat alone, staring at her cold food. She looked up, startled by his presence.

"Are you okay?" he asked, surprising himself with the question.

She laughed, a hollow sound. "My girlfriend just left me at what was supposed to be our baby shower. So, no, not really."

Kendricks nodded, understanding more than she realized. "Sometimes we build lives based on what others expect of us. We become trapped in cages with doors that are locked from the inside."

The woman—Suzie, he remembered—studied him with reddened eyes. "Who are you?"

"Just someone passing through," Kendricks said. He reached into his pocket, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the table. "For your meal."

"I don't need—"

"It's not about need," Kendricks interrupted gently. "It's about choice. You can choose to take it or leave it. Your decision."

He stood, nodding toward her belly. "What will you name it?"

Suzie blinked, hand automatically moving to her stomach. "I... I don't know anymore. We were supposed to decide tonight."

"Choose something that reminds you of strength," Kendricks suggested. "Not someone else's strength. Your own."

He walked out of the Blue Lagoon without looking back, disappearing into the Arkansas night. Behind him, Suzie picked up the twenty-dollar bill, turning it over in her hands as if seeing such an object for the first time.

---

Three months later, Dr. Nirav Aggarwal stood in the surgical theater of Memorial Hospital, preparing for a complex aortic repair. The scar on his chest had healed well—a testament to Rajiv's emergency field care and the subsequent surgery that had saved his life.

The knife had penetrated his left chest wall, missing his right-sided heart by inches. Had his heart been where most people's were, he would have died in that alley, his double life discovered in the morning when the breakfast shift arrived.

After recovering, Nirav had made a decision. No more secret life. No more hiding. He had called his parents in Mumbai and told them everything—his unhappiness, his double life, his near-death experience.

To his surprise, they had understood. His father's voice, crackling over the international connection, had been firm but kind: *Living two lives means living neither one fully, beta. Choose the path that brings you peace.*

He had chosen medicine, but on his terms. He still cooked—not in a greasy spoon under an assumed name, but in his own kitchen, for friends and colleagues who appreciated his talent. The blue cheese dressing recipe was a particular hit at hospital potlucks.

His attacker had never been found. The police report described a random act of violence, likely a robbery gone wrong. Nirav knew better, but some truths were best left unspoken.

"Scalpel," he requested, holding out his hand.

As the instrument was placed in his palm, he caught sight of a familiar face observing from the gallery—a pregnant woman, her dark hair pulled back, watching intently. One of the medical students, perhaps, though he didn't recall her name.

Their eyes met briefly. She nodded, a gesture of respect, perhaps recognition. Then the moment passed, and Nirav returned his attention to the task at hand.

The heart before him lay exposed, vulnerable. Unlike his own, it sat on the left side of the chest, where most people would expect to find it. Nirav smiled behind his surgical mask, appreciating the irony.

Sometimes, the things that make us different are the very things that save us. His heart on the right side—a detail invisible to the world—had given him a second chance. A chance to live one life, honestly, completely.

He made the first incision, precise and purposeful, beginning the delicate work of mending what was broken.