Jax laughs. It’s a deep, scratchy sound that vibrates in the small room. It is irritatingly warm.
"You’re so easy to wind up," he says. "It’s like pushing a button on a machine.Beep boop. Anger loading."
I ignore him. I focus on the screen. The pixelated image of the heart beats in greyscale loops.Focus. Mitral valve. Regurgitation.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
Jax is rocking in his chair.
I clench my jaw.
Squeak. Squeak.
"Is there a WD-40 shortage in this hospital?" I ask, not looking up. "Or do you simply enjoy the sound of metal grinding against metal?"
"It helps me think," Jax says.
"What could you possibly be thinking about that requires a soundtrack of torture?"
"Shoulder dislocation in Bay 4," Jax says instantly. The playfulness drops from his voice for a split second. "Kid fell off a ladder. Rotator cuff is torn. Trying to decide if I reduce it under sedation or take him up to surgery."
I pause. Despite his chaotic appearance, Jax O’Connell is widely considered a savant in the trauma bay. I saw it myself during the pileup three days ago. The man is a brute, but he is a brilliant brute.
"Sedation," I say, still looking at my screen. "If the vascular integrity is compromised, you want him awake enough to report sensation changes."
The squeaking stops.
I feel his eyes on me.
"Look at that," Jax says softly. "The Ice King has an opinion on orthopedic trauma."
"The circulatory system is connected to everything, Dr. O’Connell. Even shoulders."
"Thanks for the consult, Max."
"Maxwell."
"Right. Maxwell."
He stands up. I see the movement in my peripheral vision. He stretches, his arms reaching toward the water-stained ceiling tiles.
I make the mistake of looking.
His white coat falls open. His t-shirt rides up.
For a second, I see the skin of his stomach. It is tan, covered in a dusting of dark hair that trails downward into the waistband of his scrubs. My eyes traitorously travel up. His arms are exposed. Biceps flexed as he stretches.
I see the ink.
I noticed the tattoo on his left forearm before—a series of numbers—but I’ve never seen the rest. It’s a sleeve. Dark, intricate blackwork. Shading that looks like smoke. There is a geometric design near the elbow, something sharp and aggressive, softening into roses near the wrist.
And scars.
Interwoven with the ink are silvery, jagged lines. Burn marks? Shrapnel? They are old, healed, but they map a history of violence that fits poorly with the bright fluorescent lights of St. Jude’s.
He catches me looking.
I snap my eyes back to my computer screen so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
