"Anatomy," I decide. "It is boring. It is structured. It is finite."
I take a breath. I start speaking in my low, lecture-hall voice.
"The heart is suspended in the mediastinum," I begin, keeping my tone rhythmic, monotonous. "It is enclosed in the pericardial sac. The wall consists of three layers: the epicardium, the myocardium, and the endocardium."
I can feel the tension in his leg under my hand. He is fighting it.
"The right atrium receives deoxygenated blood from the superior and inferior vena cava," I continue. "It passes through the tricuspid valve."
I trace the path of the blood with my words. I describe the valves. The pressure gradients. The electrical conduction system.
Minutes pass.
Jax’s breathing shifts. It goes from shallow and jagged to deeper, slower rhythms.
"Max?" he mumbles, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Yes?"
"You have a nice voice."
"I know."
"Keep going."
"The Bundle of His divides into the right and left bundle branches," I drone on. "These branches extend through the interventricular septum..."
I watch him.
The lines of strain around his eyes begin to smooth out. His hand, which was clenched in a fist on his chest, relaxes. His fingers uncurl.
He twitches once—a hypnic jerk—and then he settles.
He is asleep.
Real sleep. Not the passed-out exhaustion of the alcohol he sometimes drinks to numb the noise, but actual, restorative sleep.
I stop talking.
The room is silent, save for the rattle of the vent and the soft sound of Jax’s breathing.
I should leave. I have "anchored the perimeter." My job is done.
But I don't move.
I look at him.
In sleep, the "Trauma Cowboy" mask is gone. He looks young. He looks vulnerable. The scar on his forehead stands out white against his skin. The tattoo sleeve on his arm seems less like war paint and more like a bruise.
I realize, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that I am not just observing a colleague.
I am guarding him.
I reach out. I brush a curl of dark hair off his forehead. His skin is warm.
"The perimeter is secure, Major," I whisper.
I settle back against the wall, pulling my phone out to check emails, but I don't read them. I just sit there, in the dark, listening to him breathe, ensuring that for at least a few hours, the ghosts don't dare to enter the room.
