Six hours later, I am covered in sweat and regretting every life choice that led me to this moment.
"We are losing pressure!"
The shout comes from Dr. Singh.
We are in OR 4. It’s not my usual domain, but the patient—a nineteen-year-old kid who got stabbed in a bar fight—bled out in the elevator, so we crashed the closest sterile room.
Maxwell is here. Of course he is. The knife nicked the pericardium.
"I need more suction," Maxwell says. His voice is calm, but it’s tight. He’s working deep in the chest cavity. "Jax, retract the lung. You’re crowding me."
"I’m keeping him from drowning in his own blood, York," I snap, pulling the retractor harder. "Work faster."
"Precision is speed," he recites, the arrogant prick.
"BP is sixty over forty," Singh announces. "He’s circling the drain."
"Damn it," I curse. "The bleeder isn't in the heart. It’s the mammary artery. It retracted behind the rib."
"I can't see it," Maxwell says. "The field is too wet."
"Move," I say.
"Excuse me?"
"I said move!" I shoulder-check Maxwell York—the Chief of Cardio—out of the way. I dive my hand into the chest cavity.I’m not looking; I’m feeling. I spent two years digging shrapnel out of soldiers in the dark. My fingers are my eyes.
"Jax, you are flying blind," Maxwell warns. "If you clamp the phrenic nerve, you paralyze his diaphragm."
"Shut up," I hiss.
I feel the pulse. The hot jet of blood. I slide the hemostat down. I pinch.
The spraying stops.
"Suction," I order.
The nurse clears the field.
There it is. The artery, clamped perfectly. The nerve is untouched.
I look up. Maxwell is staring at my hands. His eyes are wide behind his goggles. He looks furious. He looks impressed. He looks like he wants to strangle me.
"Suture," Maxwell says, stepping back in. "Now."
We finish the closure in silence. The only sound is the beep of the monitor, slowly climbing back to a normal rhythm.
"What the hell was that?"
We are out of the OR. We are in the hallway. We haven't even taken our masks off yet.
Maxwell grabs my arm. His grip is surprisingly strong. He drags me away from the scrub station, away from the nurses who are watching us with wide eyes.
"That was a save," I say, ripping my mask off. "You're welcome."
"That was reckless!" Maxwell hisses. He shoves a door open and pushes me inside.
It’s a supply closet.
