Minutes later, I’m at the scrub sink, the familiar smell of chlorhexidine sharp in my nose.
As I get ready for surgery, Sanders flickers through my mind. He's two floors up, perfectly content, I remind myself. He’s fine.
Then Lane’s voice cuts in, uninvited as always:Always the hospital, Woody. Always something or someone else more important than your family.The words tighten my chest, but I shove them down.
The case pulls me under. Irrigate, debride, flush. The rhythm steadies me until there’s nothing but the work in front of me. Finally, I flood the joint one last time, satisfied the infection’s out.
“Looks clean,” I say, handing off to the PA. “Go ahead and close her up.”
I strip off my gloves, step through the doors, and glance at the clock on the wall. 12:47 p.m.
Shit. Three hours gone.
I strip down to my scrubs and don't bother changing back into my clothes. I need to get to Sanders and take him to lunch. Nabs and Snickers aren't going to do it.
When I reach the lounge, the chair he was sitting in is vacant. I look around, thinking he found a nook somewhere else.
My heart slams against my ribs. Where the hell is he? Christ, Lane will murder me if something happens to him.
Then I remember I told him about Starbucks.
"Excuse me." I approach the hospital volunteer behind the desk, panic making my voice sharp. "My son was in here. Brown hair, green sweater, about this tall. Did you happen to see him?"
He looks up calmly, completely unfazed by myobvious terror.
"Oh, yeah. He made a friend in Dialysis. They've been yucking it up in there for going on two hours."
Dialysis?
Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. Of course he made a friend.
I head down the hall, my footsteps echoing off the polished floors.
The hum of machines hits me first. The slow rhythmic pump of blood through tubing, the faint antiseptic bite in the air that's different from the OR. It's heavier in here, somehow. More permanent.
Then I see them.
Sanders is perched in a chair, legs swinging, talking a mile a minute to a boy who's around his age, tethered to a dialysis machine. The kid looks impossibly small against the vinyl recliner, dwarfed by the equipment surrounding him. He's got a yellow and green blanket over his legs.
The boy's skin has that pale, grayish tinge I recognize immediately. It's the color of kidneys that stopped working long ago. His arms are as thin as pencils, one hooked with an IV taped carefully to the crook of his elbow. Dark circles shadow his eyes, making them look decades older than his face.
End-stage renal failure. Written all over him. I know it instantly by looking at his stance, the fatigue, the way he holds himself, like moving takes effort.
But Sanders doesn't see any of that. He's grinning, animated, gesturing wildly as he explains something, and the two of them laugh at something on the phone.
The boy nods, and Sanders scoots his chair closer, holding up my phone next to the boy's. They bend their heads together, Sanders scrolling through videos with the confidence of a digital native.
I stand in the doorway and watch, proud of my son.He's so much more social than I am and has never met a stranger.
The dialysis machine beeps, a sharp electronic sound that cuts through their laughter. A nurse bustles over. She's a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and the efficient movements of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"All done, Luke. How are we feeling?"
"Good. Better."
She disconnects the tubing with practiced movements, her hands gentle as she removes the needle from his arm. Luke winces but doesn't complain. The kid's probably been doing this three or four times a week for months, maybe years.
Christ. What are his odds? Ten percent? Five?
