She nods quickly, but it’s unconvincing. “Yes, I’m fine,” she says, her voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper.
I know she’s lying.
The room is alive with the sound of scalpels slicing through preserved flesh, whispered conversations, and the occasional clink of instruments being set down. But at this table, there’s a heaviness, a tension that feels like it’s drawing my attention no matter how much I want to ignore it.
“Tabitha,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “you’re doing great. Time for a break.”
She widens her eyes but then puts down her scalpel, clearly okay with stepping away for a minute.
I step around the table, moving to Angie’s side. I shouldn’t. I should let her figure it out on her own or pair her up with someone else later. But something in me—something I don’t want to name—won’t let me walk away.
“Angie,” I murmur. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
Her shoulders tighten, and for a moment, I think she won’t answer. But then she exhales, her breath shaky. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she says, her words rushing out in a quiet, desperate tumble. “I thought I could, but… I just… I don’t want to cut into someone.”
I nod slowly. “I know this is hard, especially if you intend for your focus to be psychiatry. But this part of your training isn’t just about learning anatomy. It’s about understanding the body as a whole, even if your work someday focuses on the mind. You don’t have to like it, but it’s important.”
She swallows hard, her gaze fixed on the untouched scalpel in her hand. “I understand that,” she says, barely above a whisper. “But it feels…wrong. Like I’m disrespecting them.”
Her words hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. “You’re not disrespecting them, Angie. This person chose to donate their body to help you learn. To help you become the kind of doctor who saves lives. What you’re doing here honors that choice.”
It’s nothing I haven’t said before. She knows that as well as I do. I don’t expect my words to change her attitude now if they haven’t already.
She doesn’t respond right away, her jaw tight as she stares down at the cadaver. I want to tell her she can step back, let Tabitha take the lead—but that won’t help her. She needs to find her own way through this.
“Start small,” I say gently. “One shallow cut. You don’t have to rush or go deep. Just get a feel for it. You might surprise yourself.”
She glances up at me again, and there’s a flicker of trust in her eyes now. She nods, her movements hesitant, but she sets the blade against the cadaver’s pale skin. Her hand trembles slightly as she presses down, the scalpel gliding over the surface. It’s a small cut, almost tentative, but it’s a start.
“There you go,” I say quietly. “That’s all it takes. One step at a time.”
I step back to give her space. Tabitha shoots me a quick look as she returns, confused but not questioning. Angie keeps her focus on her work, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her hand steadies with each pass of the blade.
I exhale, moving to the next table, but my thoughts linger. Angie is stronger than she thinks. I just hope I can keep my focus where it belongs—on teaching her, not on the way she makes my chest tighten every time I’m near.
But all I can think about is how I felt inside her, how I want to feel it again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Angie
The scalpel feels heavier than it should, like it’s mocking me.
Tabitha is doing fine, her focus locked on the pale line of her incision, her movements confident and precise. I should be grateful she’s not pressuring me to take over, but her calm competence only makes me feel worse. My chest tightens as I stare at the cadaver, and I can’t bring myself to make another cut.
Across the room, Jason is with another group, his voice steady as he gives instructions. I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying, but his tone carries that same calm authority, that quiet encouragement that somehow makes you feel like you can’t fail as long as he’s there. I steal a glance at him, watching the way he leans slightly toward one of the students, his hands moving confidently as he demonstrates the proper grip on a scalpel. He makes it look so easy, so natural.
I wonder what he’s thinking. If he’s disappointed in me.
I shake my head, trying to shove the thoughts away. This isn’t about him—it can’t be about him. I’m here to learn, to focus, but my brain doesn’t seem to care. Every time I hear his voice, every time he moves into my line of sight, my stomach twists into a knot. It’s not just that he’s good at what he does, though he is. It’s the way he carries himself, the way he seems to command the room without trying. The way his green eyes flicker with an intensity that makes me feel seen, even when I’m trying my hardest to disappear.
“Angie,” Tabitha says softly, jolting me out of my thoughts. She’s still focused on the cadaver, her voice quiet but steady. “Do you want to take the next layer?”
My throat tightens. “Uh…no, you go ahead.” I pretend to adjust my gloves.
Tabitha doesn’t push. Why would she? If I choose not to cut, she gets to do it more, and she wants to do it.
She nods and continues working, and I hate myself for feeling both relieved and ashamed. I glance toward Jason again—he’s with Jennifer and Tobias now, correcting Tobias’s grip on the scalpel. He’s patient, focused. A perfect teacher, and as I watch him, I can imagine what a perfect and precise surgeon he was before his hand injury.
