She looked up and met my eyes for just a moment.
"Ready," she said.
I turned off the tap and reached for a towel and told myself the next three hours were about the patient on that table and absolutely nothing else.
I almost believed it.
"Dr. Cross." Sarah poked her head through the door. "Patient's prepped. Vitals stable. We’re ready when you are."
"Good." I stepped back, arms up, water dripping. "Let's go."
The OR was freezing. Always was. The lights overhead were too bright, washing everything white. Margaret Torres lay on the table, already draped and intubated. Seventy-three. Bad valve. Worse odds.
She needed this surgery or she'd be dead in a few weeks. Maybe less.
I took my spot at the table. Mireya moved across from me. Our eyes met for half a second over our masks.
I looked away first.
"Scalpel."
She placed it in my palm with perfect pressure and angle. The familiar weight centered me. This part I understood. This part made absolute sense when nothing else did.
I made the first cut. Blood came up. Suction cleared it. Retractors went in. I worked through muscle and bone until Margaret's heart was right there in front of me. Tired. Struggling. Barely holding on.
"Bypass," I said.
The machine started. Margaret's blood flowed through tubes instead of her heart. Her heart slowed. Stopped.
I held it in my hands. Still and quiet. A heart that wasn't beating.
This part never stopped being strange.
"Exposure," I said.
Mireya adjusted the retractor. She knew exactly what angle I needed before I asked for it. Her hands were steady. Calm. Like we'd done this a hundred times.
I focused on the valve. Tried not to think about how aware I was of her across from me. How I could hear her breathing. How she moved like she could read my mind.
"Nurse Rosen," I said. My voice came out colder than I meant. "Suction."
She did it. But I felt her look up at me. Questioning.
I didn't meet her eyes.
The valve was worse than the scans showed. Calcified. Brittle. Spread into tissue it shouldn't be in. I changed my approach. Went slower. Smaller cuts.
"Pressure's dropping," the anesthesiologist called out.
I checked the monitors. Not good.
"Increase flow."
"Already maxed out."
My jaw tightened. "Then we move faster. Suction here, Nurse Rosen."
She moved without hesitation, positioning suction exactly where I needed it. The monitors continued their alarming chorus, but her hands didn't waver.
