Luke is already there, frantically cutting off the man’s shirt.
“He’s hypotensive,” Luke barks, refusing to look at me. “BP 70 over 40. Rigid abdomen. Likely retroperitoneal bleed.”
“I’m tagging in,” I say, moving to the other side of the table.
“I didn't ask for help!” Luke yells, grabbing the ultrasound probe.
“You didn't have to!” I yell back, grabbing the suction. “That’s how a team works, Luke! We help each other!”
“We aren't a team!” Luke slams the probe onto the patient’s stomach. “You quit! Remember? You took the golden parachute because it was ‘easy’!”
“I didn't take it!” I shout, suctioning blood from an open laceration on the man’s chest. “I resigned! I left the papers on the table!”
Luke pauses for a microsecond. “You… what?”
“Positive FAST scan!” I interrupt, pointing at the monitor. “Free fluid in the belly. He’s bleeding out. We need to open him up. Now.”
“We can’t move him to the OR,” Luke says, his voice tight. “He’ll code in the elevator.”
“Then we do it here,” I say. “Crash laparotomy. Scalpel.”
Luke looks at me. “You’re wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit.”
“And you’re wasting time!” I grab the betadine bottle and splash it over the patient’s stomach, ruining my pants instantly. “Cut him, Silva!”
Luke grabs the scalpel. He makes the incision.
For the next ten minutes, we are fighting a war on two fronts: against the patient’s dying anatomy, and against each other.
“Retractor!” Luke orders.
“Retracting!” I pull back the muscle wall. “You know, for a guy who preaches about listening, you’re really bad at hearing me!”
“I heard you!” Luke snaps, diving his hands into the abdominal cavity. “You said you belonged in the boardroom! You said you were ‘winning’!”
“I was lying!” I shout. “Suctioning the spleen! I was hurt because you called me a fraud!”
“I called you a fraud because you were leaving!” Luke finds the bleeder. “Damn it, it’s the splenic artery. I can’t get a grip on it. It’s too slick.”
“Let me try,” I say.
“No, I got it!”
“Luke, move your ego!” I jam my hand into the incision, sliding my fingers past his. Our hands collide inside the patient. It’s warm, slick, and intimate in the most gruesome way possible.
“I have the vessel,” I grunt, pinching the artery. “Clamp.”
The monitor stops its frantic alarm and settles into a steady rhythm.
Luke exhales. He looks at me over his mask. His eyes are wide.
“You… you stopped the bleed.”
“I told you,” I say, sweat dripping down my forehead. “I have good hands.”
“You’re an idiot,” Luke breathes. “You resigned from the Board? Seriously?”
“I told Alistair to go to hell,” I confirm. “And then I ran down countless flights of stairs because I missed the noise. And I missed the blood.”
