Nile builds out her internal map of Andy, Joe, and Nicky . . .

“You know,” Jack says. “It wasn’t your fault. Any of it.”

Robby is sure that there are many things that happened today, a thousand days ago, that he can’t help but bear some blame for. He lets his breath pass through his teeth. “Whatever happened to your Catholic guilt, huh?”

“It got blown to pieces with my leg,” Jack says. “Besides,” he says—and it’s this morning on the roof again, the sun coming up. “This is about your guilt, misplaced as it is.” His gaze sinks to some far-off place. “Not mine.”

(or: following PittFest, Jack follows Robby home)

“If you really want to know, the hot new thing is an app called findr. It’s for bougie professionals who like to pretend they’re elevated while slobbering all over each other, so entirely your speed.”

At that, Robby lost his war with self-control and did flip her off.

Ellis actually laughed. “The vision,” she said again, dark eyes dancing. “findr,” she said again, like he might have forgotten. “Go fuck away the raincloud, Robby. For everybody’s sake, but mostly mine,” she drawled as she sauntered away.

Jack started coughing in September. In Pittsburgh, that meant nothing in particular.

Jack and Robby connect, long-distance.

Robby finally piped up: “Kind of a shame, though. Guy seemed like your type.”

Jack felt himself wanting to bristle, quickly controlling it. Because what the fuck. They’d been entirely wrapped up in each other in the year since Pittfest, Robby finally going to therapy, letting them get more serious than the fuckbuddy deal they’d had going before that. Jack had thought things were going well. “I have a type?” he challenged, raising his eyebrows.

Robby says with a hint of a laugh in his sleep-rough voice, “Good morning to you too, Jack.”

Jack hums in agreement, pressing a kiss to the back of Robby’s neck. His skin is so warm like this. “Always a good morning when I get to wake up like this.”

Yom Kippur fell on a Thursday, not quite a month after what was arguably the third-worst day of Robby’s life.

“Shit,” Jack mutters as he walks up and looks at the board. “No luck?”

“Afraid not,” Robby says.

“Fucking surgeons.” It’s a rote complaint, and Robby ignores it, thirty seconds from finishing his last chart.

Parade speaks with ‘The Pitt’ creator R. Scott Gemmill and executive producer Joe Sachs about creating their mass shooting storyline for the Max medical drama, and what medical procedures they invented for the show.

Carter knew he’d lose a few things in his self-imposed plunge into poverty.

Nice shoes. Takeout from that sushi place on the corner. That fancy Italian bar soap that smelled like mint and lemon.

But after four long days of trying to stay full on ramen and peanut butter sandwiches, there was still more that was slipping away. As he takes the first bite of his burger—stacked with enough meat and cheese to make a cardiologist faint—he closes his eyes, and a moan slips through his lips.

And in that moment he realizes that, along with life’s small luxuries, his dignity is gone.

OR

A missing scene from Season 4, Episode 19 envisioning what happened when Doug Ross took Carter out to dinner after the shift from hell. Features a freshly impoverished Carter, Doug Ross at his best, and Carter baring his soul over a burger that’s to die for.

“You know half of this belongs to you.”

Because I was reading the series back-to-front, starting with the honeymoon and working my way backward through the courtship to the introduction, it took me awhile to notice that the depictions of Jews in Sayers’s stories didn’t fit any of my familiar categories. They did not read like regrettable lapses by an otherwise wise and temperate author. Nor were they quite accounted for by the pre-WWII British habit, so jarring to the modern ear, of expressing the simplest physical or emotional descriptions in terms of racial categories. And they seemed to grow in importance as I moved back in time and the characters (and the author) got younger.

Just how did the celebrated detective novelist actually feel about her Jewish characters—and why, in these books, can’t she seem to shut up about them? Why are there so many? Something is going on, something more complicated and personal than casual anti-Semitism and a good deal more interesting.

Carter’s not sure exactly when he first learned about the patented Peter Benton Dating Algorithm, but it must have been early on, because he internalised it like it was any other scrap of information he’d gleaned and hoarded like a crazy person, like his GPA (3.8), his birthday (September 9th) or his blood type (B positive).

“So how’s it feel to hit the big 5-0, brother?”

It's Robby's birthday and Jack Abbot is going to fuck that old man.

“Still not in the mood for talking, Jack.”

“No?” Jack stares at Robby for a long, steady beat with sharp, analytical eyes. “Okay.” He nods. “So we’re not talking.”

So they don’t.



Immediately post-season 1. In which Abbot helps Robby the best way he knows how: fingerbanging him into the mattress.

He’s nothing like the stereotypical yoga teacher Jack has been imagining. He looks more like a guy you’d see heading up a running club, middle-aged and tall and broad-shouldered, bearded but not in a hippie kind of way, and it’s only when he says, “Welcome to class. You’re new, right? I’m Robby. Any injuries I need to know about before we get started?” that Jack realizes he’s the instructor.

“We love to play with blood,” Interview With the Vampire hair designer Francesco Pegoretti says gleefully of the substance that’s the literal life source of the characters whose beautifully frightening appearance he helps craft behind the scenes. “We feel like kids playing with these things to create monsters,” adds makeup designer Vincenzo Mastrantonio. “When we start adding the blood, we also put in the fake teeth. That’s when it all comes together.”

The actors of the medical drama tease some key upcoming moments witnessed on set by Vanity Fair, while also reflecting on their Emmy-nominated breakout first season. Plus: Noah Wyle dances.

The car was no longer horizontal. It was twisted, crunched. God knew what they’d hit. The floor sloped sharply, littered with shattered glass. Smoke hung thick, mixing with the copper tang of blood and scorched plastic.

Emergency lights flickered, casting everything in a stuttering red glow like a battlefield lit by fire.

Jack’s therapist would have a field day.

Then the realization of where he was going this morning came to him. A meeting downtown. No, where were they going?

“Robby?” he rasped.