"Goodnight, Jax," he says, without looking up.
"Night, Princess."
I walk out.
I go to Room 3B. He was right. The vent rattles like a dying engine. It’s loud. It’s steady.
I lie down on the scratchy cot. I pull the thin blanket up.
For the first time in two weeks, the ghosts don't come.
I close my eyes, and all I can smell is espresso and expensive cashmere.
I’m asleep in three minutes.
Chapter 7
The Sim Lab
Maxwell
Competence is an aphrodisiac.
I have always known this. It is why I find indecision physically repulsive. But I have never truly understood the potency of the concept—the sheer, visceral pull of it—until I find myself standing in the doorway of the Simulation Laboratory, watching Dr. Jax O’Connell try to thread a 6-0 Prolene suture through a synthetic aorta.
He is failing. And it is absolutely infuriating.
"You are tearing the intima," I announce, stepping out of the shadows.
Jax jumps. The needle driver slips in his hand, snagging the silicone flesh of the mannequin.
"Jesus, Max!" Jax spins around, dropping the instruments on the tray. "Do you have a stealth mode? You move like a vampire."
"My soles are Italian rubber," I say, walking into the room.
The Sim Lab is a windowless vault, dimmed to a deeptwilight blue by the monitors. The only real light is the surgical spot trained on "Stan"—the High-Fidelity Patient Simulator who replaced “Bob”, the previous tragically fated simulator. It highlights the sheen of sweat on Jax’s neck, the way his scrub top clings to his broad shoulders.
"I’m practicing," Jax says, rubbing the back of his neck. He looks frustrated, flushed. "That vessel repair the other day... you said my technique was sloppy."
I look at the silicone pad. It is a mess of jagged stitches. It lacks rhythm.
"You are treating the vessel like a canvas tent," I observe, stepping closer. "Vascular anastomosis requires finesse, Jax. Not force."
"In the field, we stapled things shut," Jax grumbles. He picks up the needle driver again. "I’m a carpenter. You’re the watchmaker."
"Precisely."
I watch him try again. His grip is too tight, veins popping in his forearm. He is fighting the instrument.
"Stop," I command. My voice drops an octave. "You are developing muscle memory for failure."
I take off my white coat, folding it neatly over a chair. I roll up my sleeves, exposing my forearms.
"Move."
"You’re going to do it for me?"
"I am going to teach you. Stand in front of the tray."
