I could use one of my shoes to break the window, then reach in and unlock it. And that’s exactly what I’ll do if I decide not to jump. In the meantime, it’s pleasant out here, despite the wind, and I’ve got nowhere to go, since my girlfriend, Trudy, left me this morning.

You think you know someone, then one morning you get up to use the bathroom, and when you come back to bed, she’s gone.

Didn’t even take her stuff.

Just left, without a goodbye.

No message, note, or parting gift.

Nor did I have time to grieve. My phone rang, and when I answered it a nurse shouted, “Baby Blue Rooftop!”

It’s a code.

Hospitals use code words to prevent panic and protect patients’ privacy.

Baby Blue is our hospital’s code for an infant whose condition is so critical the Cardiac Life Support Team knows to go straight to the ER entrance and prepare the patient for immediate surgery. Rooftop means the infant is arriving by medevac helicopter, in which case the team will rush to the rooftop heliport.

When those words are spoken, everything changes. Administrators and fund raisers bite their lips and worry my streak will be broken. The doctors and specialists who signed off on the hopeless child think, “Good luck with that one!” The orderlies, cooks, and non-essential staff exchange bets on the surgical outcome. And the nurses regard me with hope, reverence, and awe, instead of the way they usually do: like I’m a shit stain in their panties.

I check my cell phone.

11:30 a.m.

Still no word from Trudy.

Some time passes before I hear a sound, and notice a group of workers setting up tables and chairs on the rooftop garden directly across the street. Though we’re 40 floors up, the street that separates us is so narrow I could pelt them with rocks.

When the tables are done, a team of decorators swarms the terrace like crabs on a crotch. Within 30 minutes they transform the space into something you’d see on a movie set. Everything’s white and heart-shaped, including the ice sculptures. It’s clear I’m about to witness a high-class engagement luncheon.

Soon the caterers take over, and I watch them fuss with the food till the guests arrive. By the time the festivities start, the wind has died down, and there’s not much skirt-blowing taking place, so I focus my attention on the pretty young lady in skin-tight designer jeans standing beside an imperious, well-tanned older couple. She’s graceful, trim, ponytailed, and wearing just enough makeup to prove she doesn’t need any. Even from this distance you can see the blaze of sunlight glinting off the gigantic rock on her finger, and the infinity-carat tennis bracelet her fiancé placed on her wrist to keep the pretenders at bay.

See that dazzling smile on her face?

Want to know who put it there?

See the young doctor heading her way? That’s her fiancé. He’s wearing scrubs.

Nice embrace, don’t you think?

What did they call that back in the day? A Kodak moment? Hallmark moment? Shit, I can’t remember. But it’s safe to say most people would consider it a romantic moment.

Not me.

I’m also a doctor. Unlike the young, good-looking beneficiary of the ponytailed brunette’s affection, the ledge girl was right in saying I’m famous. I’m Dr. Gideon Box, and happen to be the greatest cardiothoracic/cardiopulmonary pediatric surgeon in the world.

You think I’m boasting?

I’m not.

Nor am I putting the civilian population in danger by advertising my profession with my scrubs, like the young doctor who’s now hugging his future in-laws.

As it turns out, I know this kid. As recently as last week he was boning one of my former nurses on a regular basis.