I hadn’t cut into a body in months, and now they expected me to do it in a fevered rush.

“I don’t think that I’m ready to do this again,” I nervous said to the man in the black suit. He looked down at me through his dark sunglasses.

“I think you can, Mr. Anderson.”

I turned back to the body laid in front of me. 35 year old, white male. About 250 pounds. In a drug induced coma.

“Just make the incision, place the device on his heart, and close him up. This was routine for you, Mr. Anderson. I’m sure you can do it again.”

Closing my eyes, I tried to gather all the strength I had. I could do this. I had done this before. Something similar before. I had never added something to a patient’s heart, only removed things.

I reached over to grab a scalpel and begin.

“Mr. Anderson, in case you get any ideas, remember this. Your daughter’s life is also hanging in the balance.”

With those words, sweat began to pour from my forehead.

Okay, I thought, I can do this. I have to do this.

I began to make my first incision.


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