“Don’t we?”
max wasn’t sure. Why was it their responsibility? maybe this man had done it to himself—a result of bad luck or bad decisions.
max said, “Is it such a good idea?”
Tim tried to smile but couldn’t quite get his muscles to cooperate: more the leer of a crazed loon. His face kept shifting polarities, giddy to mortified, great forces working beneath its surface. max wondered: did the Scoutmaster really want to save the man, or only investigate for symptoms of his own condition? He contemplated the selfishness of that as the soldering gun sent up pin curls of smoke.
“What do you think it is?” max asked softly.
Tim picked up the scalpel. He stared at his hand until it stopped trembling.
“I’ve stopped trying to guess, max. I’ll open him up a little. Just a little, okay?”
Tim THOugHT back to med school, an operating theater where a doctor-instructor leaned over his patient and said: This is the God moment, folks. You hold it all in your hands right now. So honor the body beneath your blade.
Tim would do his best to honor this man’s body . . . what was left of it.
“ready, max?”
The boy nodded.
“Just follow my instructions. Don’t be scared if I yell or get demanding—it won’t be your fault.” He offered a strained and cheerless smile. “I’ll try not to raise my voice.”
Tim positioned the scalpel over the man’s flesh, which was stretched so tight that he could see the individual pores: a million tiny mouths stretched into silent screams. He lacked the cool confidence of a true “blade”—you could wake one of those guys out of a dead sleep, shove him into the operating theater and stick a knife in his hand, and he’d say I’ve got it from here and get down to cutting.
That was a rare gift. Tim had been given a smaller gift, which was why he’d ended up as a small-town GP wielding tongue depressors and blood pressure cuffs. He’d always been okay with that, too—but as the scalpel hummed over the man’s flesh, he dearly wished for the unerring self-belief of his med-school pals.
The man’s skin opened up as if it had been aching to do that very thing. A V of split flesh followed the blade as it sliced below the ribs, widening out like the wake of a yacht. everything inside existed in shades of white: the silver skin draping the man’s ribs and the layers of muscle.
“Soldering iron, max.”
Tim cauterized the severed veins. medical instruments were often just precision variations of the same tools handymen used.
“Gauze,” he said.
Tim dabbed the blood out of the half-inch-deep slit in the man’s torso—then absentmindedly dabbed the sweat off his forehead. The stranger’s breathing was unaltered. Tim wasn’t surprised. A single baby aspirin would be enough to knock him on his ass. He already may have slipped into a starvation coma.
HAl 9000 spoke up: Timothy Ogden Riggs, are you sure you’re making the right decision? I think you should stop.
The new, conflicting voice—the undervoice, as Tim now thought of it—boomed back: How could you stop now, even it you wanted to? Don’t you want to know, Tim? Don’t you NEED to know?
The blade slit through bands of taut sinew to reveal the stomach lining. milky-pale and fingered with blue veins. Tim was reminded of childhood trips to his Scottish grandmother’s home and the boiled sheep’s stomachs she’d laid out on the kitchen counter, waiting to be made into haggis: they had looked like deflated, overthick birthday balloons.
Jesus . . . Jesus Christ.
Tim wished so dearly that he was in a hospital right now, a sterilized surgical suite with nurses and orderlies buzzing about like helpful bees. most desperately of all, he wished the blade weren’t in his hand.
It doesn’t have to be, Tim, HAl 9000 said softly. Just put the blade down. Take Max’s hand—or maybe you shouldn’t touch him, just in case. Stitch this poor man up and leave the cabin. Both of you. Just go.
The undervoice, nasty and
max wasn’t sure. Why was it their responsibility? maybe this man had done it to himself—a result of bad luck or bad decisions.
max said, “Is it such a good idea?”
Tim tried to smile but couldn’t quite get his muscles to cooperate: more the leer of a crazed loon. His face kept shifting polarities, giddy to mortified, great forces working beneath its surface. max wondered: did the Scoutmaster really want to save the man, or only investigate for symptoms of his own condition? He contemplated the selfishness of that as the soldering gun sent up pin curls of smoke.
“What do you think it is?” max asked softly.
Tim picked up the scalpel. He stared at his hand until it stopped trembling.
“I’ve stopped trying to guess, max. I’ll open him up a little. Just a little, okay?”
Tim THOugHT back to med school, an operating theater where a doctor-instructor leaned over his patient and said: This is the God moment, folks. You hold it all in your hands right now. So honor the body beneath your blade.
Tim would do his best to honor this man’s body . . . what was left of it.
“ready, max?”
The boy nodded.
“Just follow my instructions. Don’t be scared if I yell or get demanding—it won’t be your fault.” He offered a strained and cheerless smile. “I’ll try not to raise my voice.”
Tim positioned the scalpel over the man’s flesh, which was stretched so tight that he could see the individual pores: a million tiny mouths stretched into silent screams. He lacked the cool confidence of a true “blade”—you could wake one of those guys out of a dead sleep, shove him into the operating theater and stick a knife in his hand, and he’d say I’ve got it from here and get down to cutting.
That was a rare gift. Tim had been given a smaller gift, which was why he’d ended up as a small-town GP wielding tongue depressors and blood pressure cuffs. He’d always been okay with that, too—but as the scalpel hummed over the man’s flesh, he dearly wished for the unerring self-belief of his med-school pals.
The man’s skin opened up as if it had been aching to do that very thing. A V of split flesh followed the blade as it sliced below the ribs, widening out like the wake of a yacht. everything inside existed in shades of white: the silver skin draping the man’s ribs and the layers of muscle.
“Soldering iron, max.”
Tim cauterized the severed veins. medical instruments were often just precision variations of the same tools handymen used.
“Gauze,” he said.
Tim dabbed the blood out of the half-inch-deep slit in the man’s torso—then absentmindedly dabbed the sweat off his forehead. The stranger’s breathing was unaltered. Tim wasn’t surprised. A single baby aspirin would be enough to knock him on his ass. He already may have slipped into a starvation coma.
HAl 9000 spoke up: Timothy Ogden Riggs, are you sure you’re making the right decision? I think you should stop.
The new, conflicting voice—the undervoice, as Tim now thought of it—boomed back: How could you stop now, even it you wanted to? Don’t you want to know, Tim? Don’t you NEED to know?
The blade slit through bands of taut sinew to reveal the stomach lining. milky-pale and fingered with blue veins. Tim was reminded of childhood trips to his Scottish grandmother’s home and the boiled sheep’s stomachs she’d laid out on the kitchen counter, waiting to be made into haggis: they had looked like deflated, overthick birthday balloons.
Jesus . . . Jesus Christ.
Tim wished so dearly that he was in a hospital right now, a sterilized surgical suite with nurses and orderlies buzzing about like helpful bees. most desperately of all, he wished the blade weren’t in his hand.
It doesn’t have to be, Tim, HAl 9000 said softly. Just put the blade down. Take Max’s hand—or maybe you shouldn’t touch him, just in case. Stitch this poor man up and leave the cabin. Both of you. Just go.
The undervoice, nasty and
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