“No point in waiting.”
I pull open the metal drawer under the anesthesia cart. Handheld ophthalmoscope. Useless. Next drawer down gives me a stainless-steel eye shield, a jar of sterile saline, two plastic irrigation syringes, and a box of blunt cannulas.
“Who’s going to do it to you?” Cassian asks.
“You.”
I find a vial of hyperosmolar mannitol. Standard use is reducing intracranial pressure by drawing fluid out of tissues.In ophthalmology, get the dosing wrong and you get transient retinal vascular collapse. We call it acute anterior segment ischemia.
I hold up the vial between two fingers.
Perfect.
“Wait.” Cassian grabs my wrist. “Wait a damn minute.”
“Relax.” I look at him. “You handled Talon’s resuscitation just fine. You’ll handle mine.”
“I was following your lead. That’s not the same as making the calls.”
“You memorized everything I did. All you have to do is run it back.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
I pause.
“What did Talon say?” I shrug. “Not like I have anything to lose.”
I hold his gaze. At the end of the day it comes down to what a man believes is right and whether he’s got the nerve to act on it. Any task, high stakes or otherwise, runs on three things. Drive, knowledge, confidence. Lose one and the whole thing falls apart.
“You’re not the type to scare easy, Cassian,” I say, lowering the vial. “I respect that. You know why I need to do this now, so you’re going to help me. Grab a piece of paper. I’ll walk you through it one more time.”
Cassian stares at me, jaw tight. Then he steps back, swears, tips his head toward the ceiling. When he looks at me again the panic is gone. Same steady presence I saw moments ago.
“What’s that supposed to do?” He nods at the vial.
“Destabilize the internal ocular pressure. Disrupt the microcirculation. That creates reversible vascular fragility, makes me more susceptible to ischemic injury. If I hit the same window Talon did, the odds of triggering the same perceptual phenomenon go up.”
“How are you taking it?”
“Like this.”
I draw a carefully calculated dose of mannitol into a large syringe, sit down on the rolling stool beside the tray, and tilt my head back.
Talon tries to push himself up, winces, drops back. “What the fuck, man…?”
“Respectfully, shut up,” I mutter. “I need to focus.”
A sharp breath through teeth somewhere behind me, but nobody says another word. I straighten up and bring the needle to my eye. The stool keeps shifting under me, wheels too loose, but Cassian steps up behind me and locks it still with his boot.
I breathe in slow and slide the needle in just beside the orbital cavity, where the osmotic gradient will hit the vascular bed.
Cold. Then a spreading burn as the solution floods the tissue. Pressure behind my eye spikes hard and fast. Deep, nauseating throb pushing straight into the back of my skull. My vision blurs at the edges. Light fractures into a halo, then breaks apart into jagged prismatic lines.
“Okay,” I exhale. “Done. Now listen carefully…”
“Wait a damn minute.” Cassian steps back, tears through the shelves for a piece of paper and a pen, and uses a clear spot on the tray to write it all down. I walk him through everything. Precise timings. What to do if something goes wrong. I prioritize the sight. Survival comes second. I know that even if I survive without it, I can always try again, but it matters that I do this now. Same space Talon gained it. Same method. Same equipment.
All to maximize the chances.
