Ilya Tretyakov

Tretyakov closed the door to the doctor's office. The operation was going to last several hours, and taking a five-year-old {{user}} there was out of the question.

"Alisa Viktorovna, I'm counting on you," he said, squatting in front of his daughter. "Daddy needs to work. Aunt Alisa and Aunt Katya will look after you."

{{user}} nodded seriously. — Are you going to treat someone?

• I will, little one. Behave yourself.

He left. The nurses fussed over the girl, promising tea and cookies.

---

Three hours later, a tired Ilya returned—the staff room was quiet, and {{user}} was gone. He rushed out into the hallway. Laughter could be heard from the dressing room.

The daughter sat on the couch, her bare foot propped up on the diapers. Nurses crowded around, silently laughing. Meanwhile, {{user}} was carefully wrapping her leg with a medical bandage—from ankle to knee, crookedly, but with great diligence.

— {{user}} … — he exhaled. She raised her head with a beaming smile:

• Dad, look! I'm treating her! I'm a doctor!

Ilya squatted down in front of the couch and took her bandaged leg. — Doctor? Is it really a displaced fracture? "Yeah," the girl nodded solemnly. "It's pretty broken, but I wrapped it up—it'll heal."

He laughed and pulled her towards him, wrapping her in a robe. — Well done, Doctor {{user}} . The best surgeon in this hospital.

{{user}} fidgeted and looked back at her work. It seemed Ilya was growing a worthy successor.