Three hours of intense concentration leave my hands steady but my mind racing. The scrub room's fluorescent lights bounce harshly off stainless steel surfaces as I approach the sink.
The snap of my gloves echoes against the tile walls as I peel them off. Sweat trickles down my back, dampening the collar of my scrubs. I exhale slowly, letting tension release from my shoulders.
Thorson's hip had been a nightmare. He has severe bone loss, instability issues that weren't evident on imaging were certainly a problem that had to be addressed before a successful replacement was possible.
Peck didn't want to open that can of worms without knowing everything in his history, and I don't blame him. I just wish I had seen it coming.
Water rushes over my hands, washing away surgical residue.
But we did it.
The grafts held. The prosthesis is stable. A man who couldn't walk without excruciating pain will recover, will stand, will move through his life without the limitations that had become his prison.
And his chances of infection and possible fatal injuries have been greatly reduced. Coming back to do this was the right decision. I know that. Still, emptiness settles in my chest as I reach for soap.
My mind drifts north to New York, to the Hudson River Park. They should be there now if they stuck to the plan we all made that night at the restaurant on 47th.
I can imagine Sanders there with his mom's phoneheld high, filming the skyline for his next video update. Luke’s probably beside him, that shy smile tugging at his pale face.
I pull out my phone and tap the TikTok app he set up for me when all this started, the one that gives me a direct window into their world.
Sure enough, there’s a new clip: the boys cutting up, palms out like they’re holding the Statue of Liberty steady from across the water. She looks small in their hands, like a toy.
And then the camera shifts, and I see her. Lane's hair blows across her face, the scarf she bought yesterday on her girl's shopping trip wrapped tightly around her neck.
A small smile tugs at my mouth, then falls away.
"Excellent work in there, Dr. Beamer." Dr. Allegheny's voice breaks through my thoughts as she enters. "Those revisions were textbook-worthy."
"Thanks." I scrub harder, avoiding her eyes in the mirror. "Thorson's femoral canal was trickier than expected. Peck might never forgive me for trying to pawn that one off on him."
"You made it look easy."
I nod absently, grabbing paper towels. My reflection stares back. I'm hollow-eyed, the exhaustion etched into my face. The man in the mirror looks nothing like the one who skated at Rockefeller Center two days ago, laughing as Lane clutched his arm for balance.
She'll never understand that this mattered, too.
I traded one kind of salvation for another. A man will walk again because I was here, not there. That has to count for something.
I toss the paper towels, straighten my shoulders, and walk out, leaving the antiseptic scent behind but carrying the weight of mychoices with me.
The doctors' lounge stretches empty around me, just two residents crashed on opposite couches, dead to the world. The coffee pot sputters and hisses in the corner, filling the room with the scent of slightly burned arabica, that particular aroma of coffee that's been sitting on the warmer too long.
I sink into the vinyl armchair, legs sprawled out, surgical cap still bunched in my hand. My muscles are concrete in my body, setting hard after a full day yesterday, flying, then taking an Uber two hours back, only to sleep three hours to perform surgery this morning.
I click back to the TikTok video to watch it again.
"Luke said it was too heavy, but I told him we're super strong!" Sanders's voice bubbles through the speaker.
"It's my jazz hands that make the difference," Luke quips, wiggling his fingers dramatically.
A pure giggle bursts from Sanders. The sound hits me in the chest, and I feel my face soften.
Then Lane drifts into frame again. I expect her this time and look forward to seeing her unencumbered.
My chest tightens painfully.
I pause the video, my finger hovering over her frozen image. The smile she's wearing isn't the careful one she puts on for me. It's real. Open.
