Preston takes a breath. He shuffles forward about an inch. “Max, there is so much fluid. Why are humans so… moist? It’s design flaw.”
“Suction. Here.” Max points to a spot terrifyingly close to the aorta.
Preston leans in, extending his arm to its absolute limit sohis face remains in a different zip code. He inserts the suction wand.
Crunch.
Max engages the rib spreader.
Preston flinches so hard he nearly drops the suction. “Oh god. That sounded like a chicken bone snapping. Why did it sound like that?”
“Access granted,” Max hums, ignoring him. “Look at that exposure. Beautiful. Preston, do you see the blockage?”
“I see a lot of red,” Preston gagged. “And some yellow. Is that fat? It looks like pudding. I’m never eating pudding again.”
“It’s the left anterior descending artery. The Widowmaker.” Max looks up, eyes twinkling. “Want to touch it?”
“Absolutely not,” Preston says immediately. “I am happy from here. I am happy observing from the viewing gallery. In a different building.”
“Touch it,” Max commands. “Feel the thrill.”
Preston extends a gloved finger, shaking visibly. He pokes the beating heart for exactly 0.2 seconds before recoiling as if he’s been burned. “It’s warm. It’s warm and slippery and I hate it. I hate you. I hate science.”
By the time we scrub out three hours later, Preston looks like he’s survived a war. He rips his mask off, taking a deep, desperate gulp of hallway air.
“That was medieval,” Preston announces, stripping off his surgical gown with violent efficiency. “We are savages, Luke. We crack people open like walnuts. I need a shower. I need to scrub my soul with bleach.”
Max walks out behind him, looking fresh as a daisy and hummingWalking on Sunshine. “You did adequate work, Preston. Though your commentary on the texture of the myocardium was unprofessional.”
“I said it felt like a stress ball dipped in slime. I stand by it.”
“See you at dinner on Sunday,” Max replies, patting him on the cheek with a fresh glove. “We’re having ribs.”
Preston slides down the wall until he hits the floor, burying his face in his hands. “I’m not going. Tell Mom I died. Tell her I died of ‘wet meat exposure.’”
I lean down awkwardly, trying to reassure him. "Don't worry, it only gets worse from here."
Preston glares up at me. "Has anyone told you that you suck at this? Cause you do."
PRESTON
I do not get to scrub my soul. Instead, twenty minutes later, I am dragged into the Trauma Bay by Dr. Jax O’Connell.
“Trauma is different, Princess!” Jax bellows, shoving a breakfast burrito into his mouth. “Surgery is for nerds who like chess. Trauma is for athletes. It’s rugby with needles.”
He kicks open the curtain to Bay 2.
“Shoulder dislocation,” Jax announces, spraying a few crumbs of egg. “Patient is Mike. Mike tried to tackle a vending machine. The vending machine won.”
Mike, a linebacker-sized man, is sitting on the gurney, clutching his right arm and groaning. His shoulder is sitting at an angle that defies anatomy.
“It ate my dollar,” Mike whimpers.
“And you fought it. I respect that,” Jax says, tossing his burrito wrapper into the bin (he misses; I pick it up). “Alright, Preston. Reduce it.”
I stare at the shoulder. It looks like a fleshy, angrygeometric puzzle.
“Reduce it?” I ask. “Don't we need... imaging? A sedative? A priest?”
