a bit weakly she
thought. "How you doing, Quinn?"
Quinn coughed. She swore she could
taste the formaldehyde. "They say we'll adjust. I'd like to believe
that."
Tim nodded. "Just be glad the air
conditioning's working. It's ninety-five outside. Can you imagine
what this place would be like if we had an extended power
failure?"
Quinn couldn't—didn't even want to
try.
She said, "Let's check the list and
see where we're—"
"I already did. Our table's over
here."
" Our table?"
"Number four."
"How'd we happen to get together?" she
said. "Did you pull something—?"
"Not my doing, I swear. Check the list
yourself. Brown is the last of the B's. There's only two C's, and
Cleary comes before Coye. They put us together."
Quinn stepped over to the bulletin
board. Sure enough: Brown, T. and Cleary, Q. were assigned to table
four.
"Come on," Tim said. "Stop dragging
this out. Let's go meet Mr. Cadaver."
Table four was in the far left corner.
As they made their way toward it, Quinn took in her surroundings.
The Anatomy Lab was a long, high ceilinged room, brightly lit by
banks of fluorescents. Twenty-five tables were strung out in two
rows of ten and one row of five; a lecture/demonstration area took
up the free corner.
She and Tim were among the last to
arrive but no one was looking at them. They all were standing at
their assigned metal tables, one on each side, flanking their
cadavers—inert mounds beneath light green plastic sheets. Quinn
studied the faces of her fellow students as she passed. Some grim,
some green, some as gray as their lab coats, some avid and
animated, all a bit anxious.
Quinn took heart. Maybe she wasn't
such a wimp. She felt a sampling of each of those same emotions
swirling within her: As much as she loathed the idea of cutting up
a human body, she yearned for what she would be learning. And as
eager as she was to get started, she dreaded her first look at that
dead face.
"Here we are," Tim said.
"Table four." He moved around to the far side of the green-sheeted
form. "And here's Mr. Cadaver." He lifted the edge of the sheet and
peeked beneath. "Oops. Sorry. Mrs. Cadaver."
"Tim," she whispered. "Knock it off.
Aren't you...the least bit...?" Words failed her.
Tim lowered his dark glasses and
looked over the rims with his blue eyes.
"Want to know the truth?" he said
softly. "I'm terrified. And I'm completely grossed out." Then he
snapped the glasses back up over his eyes and gave her a steely
smile. "But don't tell anyone."
Well, we've all got our own ways of
dealing with things, I guess, Quinn told herself. This must be
his.
Better than throwing up, which was
what she felt like doing.
She jumped as the overhead speakers
came to life.
"All right, gentlemen and ladies.
We're about to start the first dissection. But before we begin, I
want each of you to listen very carefully to me."
Quinn looked around and saw their
anatomy professor, Dr. Titus Kogan, short, balding, puffy, looking
like he'd spent some time in the formaldehyde baths himself. He
stood in the lecture/demonstration area, holding a
microphone.
"For the next nine months
you will be dissecting the cadavers at your assigned tables. They
are no doubt intimidating now but you will soon enough become
familiar with them. Do not become too familiar with them. I will
repeat that for anyone who might have missed it: Do not become too
familiar with your cadaver.
"Never forget that you are dismantling
the body of a fellow human being. This is a rare and precious
privilege. Many of these people donated their bodies for this
purpose. Others belonged to the least of our species—the homeless,
the unidentified, the unclaimed. All of them are anonymous, but
that doesn't mean they didn't have names, didn't have friends and
family. Remember that as you carve them up. No matter what their
past histories, no matter what their socioeconomic status when they
were alive or what route they took to get here, they all deserve
our respect. And I shall
thought. "How you doing, Quinn?"
Quinn coughed. She swore she could
taste the formaldehyde. "They say we'll adjust. I'd like to believe
that."
Tim nodded. "Just be glad the air
conditioning's working. It's ninety-five outside. Can you imagine
what this place would be like if we had an extended power
failure?"
Quinn couldn't—didn't even want to
try.
She said, "Let's check the list and
see where we're—"
"I already did. Our table's over
here."
" Our table?"
"Number four."
"How'd we happen to get together?" she
said. "Did you pull something—?"
"Not my doing, I swear. Check the list
yourself. Brown is the last of the B's. There's only two C's, and
Cleary comes before Coye. They put us together."
Quinn stepped over to the bulletin
board. Sure enough: Brown, T. and Cleary, Q. were assigned to table
four.
"Come on," Tim said. "Stop dragging
this out. Let's go meet Mr. Cadaver."
Table four was in the far left corner.
As they made their way toward it, Quinn took in her surroundings.
The Anatomy Lab was a long, high ceilinged room, brightly lit by
banks of fluorescents. Twenty-five tables were strung out in two
rows of ten and one row of five; a lecture/demonstration area took
up the free corner.
She and Tim were among the last to
arrive but no one was looking at them. They all were standing at
their assigned metal tables, one on each side, flanking their
cadavers—inert mounds beneath light green plastic sheets. Quinn
studied the faces of her fellow students as she passed. Some grim,
some green, some as gray as their lab coats, some avid and
animated, all a bit anxious.
Quinn took heart. Maybe she wasn't
such a wimp. She felt a sampling of each of those same emotions
swirling within her: As much as she loathed the idea of cutting up
a human body, she yearned for what she would be learning. And as
eager as she was to get started, she dreaded her first look at that
dead face.
"Here we are," Tim said.
"Table four." He moved around to the far side of the green-sheeted
form. "And here's Mr. Cadaver." He lifted the edge of the sheet and
peeked beneath. "Oops. Sorry. Mrs. Cadaver."
"Tim," she whispered. "Knock it off.
Aren't you...the least bit...?" Words failed her.
Tim lowered his dark glasses and
looked over the rims with his blue eyes.
"Want to know the truth?" he said
softly. "I'm terrified. And I'm completely grossed out." Then he
snapped the glasses back up over his eyes and gave her a steely
smile. "But don't tell anyone."
Well, we've all got our own ways of
dealing with things, I guess, Quinn told herself. This must be
his.
Better than throwing up, which was
what she felt like doing.
She jumped as the overhead speakers
came to life.
"All right, gentlemen and ladies.
We're about to start the first dissection. But before we begin, I
want each of you to listen very carefully to me."
Quinn looked around and saw their
anatomy professor, Dr. Titus Kogan, short, balding, puffy, looking
like he'd spent some time in the formaldehyde baths himself. He
stood in the lecture/demonstration area, holding a
microphone.
"For the next nine months
you will be dissecting the cadavers at your assigned tables. They
are no doubt intimidating now but you will soon enough become
familiar with them. Do not become too familiar with them. I will
repeat that for anyone who might have missed it: Do not become too
familiar with your cadaver.
"Never forget that you are dismantling
the body of a fellow human being. This is a rare and precious
privilege. Many of these people donated their bodies for this
purpose. Others belonged to the least of our species—the homeless,
the unidentified, the unclaimed. All of them are anonymous, but
that doesn't mean they didn't have names, didn't have friends and
family. Remember that as you carve them up. No matter what their
past histories, no matter what their socioeconomic status when they
were alive or what route they took to get here, they all deserve
our respect. And I shall
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