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  I’M THE LAST guy you want to meet in the hospital—and not because I’m a vindictive son of a bitch.

  I am a vindictive son of a bitch, but the reason you don’t want to meet me is I’m your child’s last hope for survival. When they wheel your kid into my operating room, it means his problems are so severe no one else can perform the surgery.

  That’s because I’m the most technically gifted congenital/cardiothoracic surgeon in the world.

  That’s right, in the world.

  Think I’m bragging?

  I’m not.

  I take no pleasure in being the world’s greatest surgeon.

  Someone in the world makes the best flapjacks. Someone else is the best seamstress. And someone owns the world’s biggest ranch, truck, or penis.

  I’d rather be any of them.

  Especially the guy with the biggest penis.

  But it’s my job to be the best surgeon.

  My skill is my curse, and forces me to work in hell, under excruciating pressure. I say that and you think, yeah, there probably is a lot of stress in what I do, operating on infants and children.

  No.

  You think you know, but you don’t.

  You have no idea.

  Want a glimpse into my world? That’s me in the operating room, standing in the corner, crying silently so the others won’t know. They think I’m psyching myself up for the six-hour procedure I’m about to perform.

  See that tiny blue object on the table, surrounded by two highly-skilled nurses, a pediatric anesthesiologist, and assisting surgeon?

  My patient, Lainey Sue Calfee.

  Five pounds, less than a month old, structurally abnormal heart. It would take five minutes to tell you what’s wrong with her, but she’ll be dead by then. And anyway, those are only the problems I know about. You can bet I’ll find more bad news when I open her chest in a few minutes.

  I always do.

  What you need to know about Lainey is she’s not going to make it.

  It’s okay, I already told her parents.

  V

  THAT’S ME AN hour ago, approaching the conference room to meet Lainey’s parents, Jordan and Will Calfee.

  Of Calfee Coffee.

  As I enter, Jordan and Will are on the sofa, grim-faced, holding hands. Nurse Sally’s in the straight-back chair, giving me the evil eye. Security Joe’s standing at the doorway.

  As always, I nod at Security Joe and say, “Are you feeling okay? Because you don’t look so good.”

  As always, he ignores me.

  Jordan and Will jump to their feet, searching my eyes.

  If my eyes could talk, they’d say I’m dying inside, thinking how the Calfee’s lives will change forever when I kill their kid on my operating table.

  Nurse Sally hates me. She’s black, two hundred fifty pounds, her age a complete mystery. Could be forty, could be sixty. She’s a wonderful, caring person, my polar opposite. She visits the parents before they meet me, warns them about my notoriously foul bedside manner, and attempts to calm them down after I leave.

  Security Joe is mid-thirties, former Marine, big, tough, freaky quiet. The kind of guy you’d expect to see guarding the president.

  Joe’s chief of security, here to guard me from possible assault. He blends into the background, always ready to step between me and an angry parent. While Joe couldn’t care less if I offend the parents, Sally constantly wants to slap me up the side of my head for doing so.

  I’d love to have Nurse Sally’s attitude, and probably would, if I had her job.

  Or any other job.

  I’m not asking for sympathy, but imagine if your job required you to do something that made you physically and mentally sick every time you did it. I know you can’t relate, and there are no good examples, but you know that chalky stuff you have to drink the day before getting a colonoscopy? It tastes like hell and makes you shit for twelve hours straight?

  Let’s say your job was to drink that chalk every day of your life.

  You’d like to quit, but you’re the only one in the world who can do it, and every day you don’t drink the chalk, a child you’ve met will die.

  That’s a lot of pressure.

  After a few years, it gets to your head.

  Makes you do crazy things in order to cope.

  So that’s what I do, perform one or two of these horrific, impossible operations, then go bat shit crazy and run out into the world and do stupid, dangerous things, like breaking into people’s houses when they’re on vacation, and assuming their lives.

  VI

  THE CALFEES ARE a young, pretty couple, with tons of money. This situation with Lainey Sue is probably the first bad thing that’s ever happened to them that couldn’t be solved with cash and a phone call.

  After failing to find reassurance in my eyes, Jordan falls into her husband’s arms and sobs.

  I’d love to give this couple hope, but like I said, I don’t get the easy cases. When I get the call it means a child’s condition has passed critical. It means hope has left the building.

  Like most dads before him, Will says, “We want Lainey Sue to have the finest treatment available. Spare no expense. Money’s no object.”

  This probably impresses Jordan, but in my experience it’s complete and utter bullshit.

  After the fact, he’ll complain about the bill, the access, the forms, rules and regulations, the nurses in the recovery unit, and everything else that inconveniences him in the slightest. He’ll threaten to sue me and the hospital over our fees.

  After all, I killed his kid. Why should he pay me two hundred grand?

  Or I saved his kid, which means I did my job, like the world’s greatest plumber does his job unclogging the family toilet.

  So sure, the hospital and I deserve something, but two hundred grand?

  How can we possibly charge two hundred grand for a days’ work?

  In most cases it’s not even their money at stake, it’s an insurance issue. But he’ll threaten to sue over the deductible, or the overage, or the out-of-pocket, or the increased future premium assessment.

  Before the operation we’re all supposed to hold hands and be friends. Afterward, he won’t give a rat’s ass about me, or what I had to go through to save his child.

  And neither will Jordan.

  I don’t say any of this to the Calfees, which proves I’m getting better at these parent conferences despite the stack of complaints in my personnel file.

  “Everyone says you’re the best,” Jordan says. “I know it’s bad, but you’ll save Lainey, right? You will, won’t you?”

  When they beg, it’s like I’m drinking the chalk. I’ll need a toilet soon.

  Jordan pulls away from her husband and gets right up in my face. Could there be any emotion on earth more raw and heartbreaking than a mother’s love for her dying child? Jordan’s red eyes and wet cheeks are love’s battlefield. When she speaks, her hot, sweet breath fans my lips and fills my nostrils.

  “Please, Dr. Box.”

  Despite the dire situation, despite Jordan’s considerable beauty, wealth, and status, I see exactly what she wants me to see.

  She’s a good person.

  By extension, her husband and daughter are good, worthy people.

  Of course, I already know this.

  She grips my wrist. “I need to know there’s hope.”

  I glance at Nurse Sally’s baleful look before responding. She’s Mike Tyson in a dress, only angrier.

  Sally’s told me time and again the moms need something to cling to. Something to get them through the multi-hour ordeal that lies ahead. But I won’t give any parent false hope. Sally knows this, but the look in her face says she’s ready to leap across the room and royally fuck…me…up.

  I ignore Sally’s look as I always do, and tell Jordan what I tell all the moms.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Calfee. There’s no hope. You need to spend the next few hours adjusting to life without Lainey Sue.”

 
; Jordan backs away slowly, drops to the couch, stunned.

  Nurse Sally shouts, “Oh no, you didn’t!” And comes out of her chair like a rocket. She launches a meaty fist toward my throat. Joe steps between us, catches the blow on his forearm, and ushers me from the room.

  VII

  I DON’T HEAR what happens next, but the routine’s always the same. The dads get angry. The moms cry. They demand to speak to the hospital administrator, Bruce Luce. They want a replacement surgeon, refusing to trust their child’s operation to one who’s already given up.

  Bruce is on standby when I meet the parents, so he shows up quickly, finds Nurse Sally hugging Jordan to her ample bosom, Security Joe staring straight ahead with dead eyes while Will curses and threatens to physically assault me.

  Bruce says, “We warned you in advance Dr. Box has a terrible bedside manner. He’s a genius, not a communicator. But remember, he’s never lost a patient at this hospital, or any other.”

  “Never?” they say.

  “Around here he’s called ‘The Miracle,’ and for good reason. Thirty-two hopeless cases. No fatalities.”

  “I don’t like him!” Jordan says.

  “I don’t either,” Bruce says. “In fact, I hate his guts. But he’ll find a way to save Lainey.”

  “How could he stand there and say there’s no hope?” Will asks.

  “It takes the pressure off him to be perfect.”

  Nurse Sally pipes in, “The truth is Doc Box ain’t fit to be in the company of man nor beast. The good Lord pulled every ounce of useful goodness outta that man at birth, and stuck a lump of coal where his heart should be.”

  “But?” Jordan says.

  “But he’s the one you want in that room with Lainey, because he never gives up. He’ll fight the devil to save your child. And he will save her. But after he does, leave him be. Don’t go looking for him. Don’t try to thank him.”

  “Why?”

  “This ain’t a celebratin’ sort of man. You’ve seen him at his best, not his worst. Trust me, you’ll do well to leave him to his lonely miserableness.”

  Jordan and Will grudgingly sign off on the surgical procedure, and for the next six to eight hours, I reside in hell.

  Of course, Lainey Sue died.

  VIII

  LAINEY SUE DIED several times on my table, but with her walnut-sized heart in my skilled hands, she came back to life again and again. You’d think this kid was Joan of Arc, the way she fought so valiantly! I got into it like I always do, hurling blood-curdling insults at my colleagues, my hospital, Lainey Sue, her innards, her parents, and even Calfee Coffee, which I actually like.

  By the time it was over the nurses were sobbing with joy, and I’d gone through my entire repertoire of oaths and cuss words at least six times, having used them in every possible combination.

  My hands were cramped beyond use, my nerves frayed, and the tendons in my back and neck were twisted and gnarled like Gordian Knots from the mental and physical exhaustion that comes from total concentration while standing in a precise position for hours at a time. Like always, the pain in my head felt life-threatening.

  On the table, Lainey Sue was resting quietly, pink and fit.

  Nurse Janet gushed, “What an amazing little girl! She absolutely refused to die!”

  To me she said, “I’m filing a grievance against you for sexual harassment and verbal abuse.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “You’ve worked with me before. You know how I am.”

  “Never again. I’m done.”

  “We just saved a life here. Do you really care about a few cuss words?”

  “You’re getting worse.”

  “How?”

  “You’re a complete psychopath. You called me the C-word. You barked like a dog.”

  “Which C-word?”

  “All of them. You called me things that didn’t even make sense.”

  “I was in a zone!”

  Nurse Margaret said, “She’s right. I’ve never heard such vile language. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  She shook her head. “And the things you said to that poor child? And the names you called her?”

  She crossed herself.

  Then said, “You cursed like a drunken sailor, speaking in tongues.”

  IX

  HOURS LATER, DESPITE the warnings, Jordan Calfee tracked me down in my office, threw her arms around me and said, “Omigod, you saved my daughter’s life!”

  Jordan had looked beautiful that morning. But now, standing in my office, she was positively radiant.

  “Dr. Box! Gideon! You’ve given us a beautiful, healthy baby to raise!”

  “Who let you in to see me?”

  “Your secretary.”

  “Lola? Seriously?”

  “Your fee, whatever it is, isn’t enough. How can I possibly repay you?”

  She seemed sincere.

  I said, “Would you consider a blow job?”

  Jordan paused a moment, as if her ears momentarily betrayed her. Then she slapped my face full-force, stormed out of my office, and reported me to Administrator Luce. She followed that up with a written statement to the hospital’s board of directors, effectively earning me a four-day suspension and six months’ probation.

  We all would have preferred a harsher ruling, but there were two patients in the cue who would die if I’m not on duty when they’re strong enough for surgery. One is Lilly Devereaux, whose parents, Austin and Dublin, offered to donate a wing to the hospital if I save their child’s life.

  Since Lilly’s surgery will likely take place in five to seven days, the board voted to suspend me for four days, which would give them time to bribe our existing nurses to work with me, or hire new ones away from our competitors.

  Secretary Lola said, “Now you’ll have time to see Shelby Lynn.”

  “Who?”

  She handed me a letter and said, “It’s from the stack of fan mail I placed on your credenza last month.”

  “I’ve got fan mail?”

  “You do.”

  I look at the letter. “You’ve read this?”

  “I read them all. It’d do you good to read them, too.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re loved by many.”

  “Right.”

  Lola shrugged, left the room. I sat down, read the letter, then went home and booked the next flight to Cincinnati.

  1.

  Cincinnati, Ohio.

  Thursday, 9:15 p.m.

  Firefly Lounge.

  “DUDE!” WILLOW SAYS, approaching. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

  She stops two feet away, wearing a smile and very little else.

  “Glenlivit 21, thirty bucks a shot, right?”

  I glance at the dark amber liquid in my glass, then back at her.

  She says, “We don’t serve many of those. By the way, I’m Willow.”

  “Chris,” I say. “Chris Fowler.”

  She laughs. “We don’t use last names in here, Chris.”

  I nod.

  “You’re in the chair,” she says. “Will I do?”

  “Sure.”

  Of course she’ll do. Willow’s by far the class of the place. The problem is she knows it.

  She flashes me the smile that earns more in tips than hookers get for a toss. It’s a spectacular smile, well worth the fortune her parents must’ve spent on braces a few years back.

  I wonder how proud they’d be to see Willow giving lap dances.

  She hikes a leg over mine, taking care not to injure me with her five-inch stiletto. Her panties, blood-spatter red to match the shoes, hug her crotch so tightly they could pass for spray-on. Her cropped tee is bright white.

  She’s on my lap now, facing me, our eyes two feet apart. Mine black, hers, goldenrod.

  I sip my drink. “Want one?”

  “What, a Scotch?”

  She laughs. “I wouldn’t know it from lighter fluid.”

  I place the drink on t
he table beside us.

  Willow says, “You want me facing, or turned away?”

  “Facing. I like your smile.”

  “Then we’re good.”

  She closes her eyes half-mast, pouts her lips, shows me her sultry look.

  “You ready?” she purrs.

  “What, no music?”

  “DJ’s cuing it. I could’ve waited another thirty seconds, but you’re too cute. One of the other girls might’ve stolen you.”

  Right, stolen me.

  Because I’m so cute.

  To keep the conversation going I ask, “What do you drink?”

  “Vodka cranberry.”

  “Can I buy you one of those?”

  “Not here. You know, it’s—”

  “Against the rules?”

  She laughs. “Against the law, actually.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m underage. For liquor, anyway.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I know,” she says. “Weird, right?”

  The music starts. Willow arches her back, lifts her chin, lowers it, raises it again, licks her lips seductively, then removes her top.

  “Show time,” she says.

  She puts her hands high over her head and gives her tits a shake. Then leans into me, brushes her nipples across my lips and says, “You like that, sugar?”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  She gives me an odd look and does that boobs-across-my-lips thing again, expecting me to kiss them, but I don’t.

  I picture her ten minutes from now, telling her friend, Cameron about it. She’ll say, “See the older guy in the corner? Black jeans, t-shirt? I was grinding him just now, really working it. I rubbed my tits in his face and asked if he liked it, and guess what he said?”

  Cameron will shrug.

  “He said, ‘Thanks.’”

  They’ll laugh, probably snort a line.

  Cameron will ask how much I tipped.

  “Two hundred.”

  “No shit?” Cameron will say.

  Next time they come out, I’ll completely ignore Willow and signal Cameron to come over. They’ll exchange a glance, but really, what can Willow do? She can’t claim I’m her customer if I ask for someone else.