I’m standing at the scrub sink outside Bay 1, washing the blood off my arms. The water turns pink as it swirls down the drain.
I’m exhausted. The adrenaline crash is hitting me hard. My hands are starting to tremble—just a little. I grip the edge of the sink to steady them.
"You have a tremor."
I stiffen. Maxwell is at the sink next to me. He’s scrubbed clean, fresh scrubs on, hair re-gelled. The only evidence of the last hour is the tension in his jaw.
"Just caffeine withdrawal," I lie. "Or maybe I’m shaking from the sheer awe of watching the great Dr. York get his hands dirty."
Maxwell pumps soap into his hands. He scrubs methodically. Up to the elbows. Rinse. Repeat.
"That procedure," he says quietly. "The clamshell. It wasreckless. You exposed him to massive trauma. You bypassed every safety protocol."
"And if I hadn't?" I ask, turning to face him. Water drips from my elbows.
Maxwell stops scrubbing. He looks at me in the mirror.
"He would be dead," Maxwell admits. The words seem to cost him something.
"Exactly. Welcome to the trenches, Max. It’s not pretty, but it works."
He turns off the tap. He dries his hands with a paper towel, taking his time. Then he turns to me. He steps into my personal space. He’s close. Too close. I can count the eyelashes behind his lenses.
"Your technique on the liver packing was sloppy," he says softly. "And your music is atrocious."
He reaches out. For a second, I think he’s going to touch me. My heart hammers a rhythm against my ribs that has nothing to do with the Code Orange.
But he just reaches past me, grabs a paper towel, and hands it to me.
"You missed a spot," he says, gesturing to my neck.
He walks away, heading back toward the elevators, back to his glass tower in the sky.
I wipe my neck. The paper towel comes away red.
I watch him go, watching the way his tailored scrubs fit across his shoulders.
"Asshole," I whisper, grinning despite myself.
I really hope the renovation takes a long, long time.
Chapter 3
The Tape Line
Maxwell
There is a concept in surgery called the "Zone of Sterility."
It is a defined perimeter, an invisible forcefield that separates the clean from the dirty, the safe from the infected. Inside the zone, life is preserved. Outside the zone, chaos reigns.
I am currently staring at the Zone of Sterility I have attempted to create in Office 104.
It is failing.
"You’re staring at the floor again, Max. It’s weird."
I look up. Dr. Jax O’Connell is leaning back in his chair—which squeaks with the agonizing rhythm of a dying bird—balancing a half-eaten breakfast burrito on his chest.
