The Incision

The Operating Theater was a world of blue. Blue drapes, blue scrubs, blue light.

The air was frigid and smelled of cauterized flesh.

Julian stood at the table, looking through the microscope. Avery stood opposite him, assisting.

They hadn't spoken a word outside of surgical commands for four hours.

"Tumor is adherent to the brainstem," Julian said, his voice tight. "I need the micro-dissector."

The scrub nurse handed it to him.

"Steady," Avery murmured. It was a reflex.

Julian flinched.

The patient was a six-year-old boy named Leo. He had blue eyes and loved dinosaurs.

"Dissecting," Julian said.

The monitor began to beep. Rapidly.

*Beep-beep-beep-beep.*

"BP is dropping," the anesthesiologist announced. "Heart rate 140."

"Bleeder," Julian snapped. "Suction."

Avery moved the suction tip. Blood was filling the cavity, obscuring the field.

"I can't see the source," Julian said. His voice rose a fraction of an octave. "Where is it? Where is it?"

"Dr. Cross, pressure is bottoming out," anesthesia warned.

Julian froze.

His hands—the golden hands, the hands insured for millions—stopped moving.

He was back in the surgery two weeks ago. The mentor he had lost. The blood he couldn't stop. The failure.

The panic in his eyes was visible above his mask. He was spiraling. He was going to lose the kid.

The room held its breath. The nurses looked at each other. The anesthesiologist looked at the clock.

"Dr. Cross!" the scrub tech said urgency.

Julian didn't move. He was paralyzed by the weight of the white coat. By the expectation of perfection.

Avery looked at him.

She saw the panic. She saw the man from the chapel, hunched over in grief.

She could let him fail. It would prove her point. It would humble the god.

But then she looked at the boy on the table.

Avery broke the sterile field of emotional distance. She leaned in, bringing her face close to his microscope.

"Jules," she whispered.

It was barely audible over the monitors. But Julian heard it.

His eyes snapped to hers.

"You aren't alone," Avery said, her voice fierce and grounding. "You aren't the Chief right now. You're just a doctor trying to help a kid. Just breathe."

She held his gaze. She offered him the same grace she had offered in the chapel. *I see you.*

Julian took a breath. A ragged, shuddering inhale.

He looked back at the field.

"Suction here," he ordered. His voice was steady. "Bipolar on 20."

He moved his hand. He found the vessel. He cauterized it.

The bleeding stopped.

"BP stabilizing," anesthesia said. "Crisis averted."

Julian slumped slightly, his shoulders dropping. He looked at Avery. Above the masks, his eyes crinkled.

"Thank you," he mouthed.

"Finish the job, Jules," she whispered back.

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