Twelve questions. Almost none of them are about medicine, which is the point. At the end you get one of 49 real specialties, why you got it, and the one you'd have hated.
Dr. Match here. I keep the sorting stethoscope, and I have honestly never once been wrong, mostly because nobody ever comes back to tell me otherwise. Twelve questions. Don't overthink them. It can basically tell either way. — Dr. Match
Dr. Match is listening
They will tell you it was made in a workshop in Vienna. They will also tell you it was dredged out of a riverbed, and that it was traded for something a man could not afford to lose. All three stories are told by people who were not there.
I was not there either. But I have carried it longer than anyone still alive, and it has told me things.
It is older than the profession. The first physician to hold it did not know what it was for, so he pressed it to a wall, and heard the house deciding whether to fall down. He wrote none of it down. Sensible man.
It does not listen to hearts. Hearts are loud and full of opinion and will say whatever gets them liked. It listens underneath all that, to the part of you that has already chosen, about half a second before you catch up. That is why the questions are strange. Nobody has ever prepared for a question about a box.
It has been wrong once. I know the day, the hour, and the name. I will be taking all three with me.
Twice I have put it on myself. Both times it went quiet. Not the quiet of a broken thing. The other quiet, the one that means you know already and it would rather not be the one to say it out loud.
Twelve questions. Try not to lie to it. Everybody does, usually around the seventh, and it has never once been fooled.— Dr. Match