Surprise Delivery(22)

Not that the nightlife around here is anything to write home about – not unless getting shot or blown up is your idea of a good time.

“It’s fine, Sandra,” I say. “I understand why you felt like we should move on.”

“Well, I was wrong,” she says. “The work you did on that boy’s leg – it was masterful. Amazing.”

“We don’t know yet if it will hold,” I reply. “He could still very well lose it.”

“I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have to worry about that,” she says. “You fixed it. I didn’t think it was possible, but you did it.”

I shrug and dry off my hands. All I want is to go back to my quarters, have a drink, and relax. Maybe I’ll read a book, or maybe I’ll just sleep. I’ve been on my feet for the last twelve hours and need some downtime.

“I’m not one who gives up very easily,” I say.

“I can see that,” she replies. “Honestly, I’m sorry I questioned you in front of –”

I hold up my hand to stop her. “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “No harm done. All that matters, is that our patient gets better. Have a good evening.”

Before she can reply, I walk out of the locker room and head down the corridor toward my room. We’re being housed in a formerly abandoned apartment building that’s been repurposed for us and is attached to the small medical compound. There’s a large, thick wall that surrounds the whole campus meant to keep us safe, but kind of looks more like we’re being kept in a prison. It’s only two stories and doesn’t have a lot of amenities, but I’ve got a bed to lay down on at night and a shower that has hot water – most of the time – so I’m making do. Although, I wouldn’t mind a more comfortable mattress and some softer pillows.

Closing the door behind me, I immediately pour a stiff drink, then swallow half of it down, relishing the burn as the liquid slips down my throat. I may not have four hundred thread count sheets, but I sure as hell found a way to get some of the good scotch into this place – which kind of tells me where my priorities are at.

But, given the shit I see on a daily basis – the bodies that are torn and broken – I usually need something to take the edge off. Just a little something to dull the nerves and soften the horrors I see every single day. I’m not squeamish about blood – it would be a pretty bad phobia to have as a surgeon, after all – but seeing women and children either riddled with bullets or after being savaged by an explosive isn’t ever the easiest thing to deal with.

So, I cope with it the best way I know how – sarcasm and good scotch. It’s how I cope and make it through the day. Yeah, I know I signed up for this, but the idea of being in a warzone and the reality of it are two different things entirely. To be perfectly honest, the reality of it wasn’t something I was prepared for. It’s not like any TV show or movie I’ve ever seen – it’s a whole shitload worse.

But I’m handling it – and, in the process, I’m doing some good.

I finish off my drink and pour another one, then drop down into the chair at the scarred and nicked up desk that came with the room. I lean back in the seat and put my feet up on the desk, sipping my drink slowly as I replay the day.

There had been two guys – maybe my age, maybe a little bit older – who’d come through my operating theater today covered in blood. Fighters, the both of them. Also, they had both taken several bullets and had lost a lot of blood out on the battlefield out there.

Neither one of them made it.

The kid, though – when I first saw his face, I didn’t think we were going to be able to save his life, let alone his leg. He’s just so young – too young to know the kind of hatred and pain he’s enduring. The moment I saw him, I vowed to myself that I wasn’t going to lose another one today. I vowed that I would do everything in my power to not only save his life, but his leg as well.

I understand why Sandra was freaking out on me a bit. What I was doing was probably a little unorthodox. It wasn’t the usual way of doing things – not even for battlefield surgery. But I was bound and determined to save that kid and make him whole again.

And for that, I’m proud. He’s got a long road to a full recovery ahead of him, there’s no question. But I’m pretty sure I saved his leg. I’m pretty sure I gave him another shot at a normal life. As I sit back and take another long drink, I feel damn good about it. So good, it almost wipes away the frustration over losing the first two. It almost balances the scales in my head.

Almost.

As I silently bask in my victory over death, my eyes fall on a picture I have pinned to the wall just over the desk. It’s from the charity gala where I first met Alexis. It’s been a few weeks since that night and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. Images of her constantly run through my mind – it’s all I can do to shut that part of my brain down while I’m working. The last thing I need is to be elbow deep in somebody’s guts and have Alexis’ face dancing through my head.

I have to say, the effect she had on me is profound. I’ve never experienced something like that with a woman before. The connection that formed between us was as powerful as it was instant, and it left both of us pretty shook. Yet I can’t deny that it felt good. It felt – right.