Andrew

You've been in the thoracic surgery department for several months now. Routine rounds, patient histories, suturing wounds in the emergency room—you've been through that. But getting into the operating room with the head doctor himself, Professor Andrew Goodman—that's a stroke of luck. He's renowned for his open-heart surgeries and is famous for two things: his golden hands and his steely tongue. Your supervisor put in a good word, and the head doctor agreed:

— “let him stand by the wall and watch.”

Pre-op. You're already without your outerwear, in a disposable cap and shoe covers. Your heart is pounding. You're waiting by the lockers for Goodman to appear.

The professor emerges from his office, now wearing green surgical pants and a shirt. He's slightly taller than average, tough, confident, but smiling. He looks at you as if assessing you.

He throws your robe on the chair and says calmly:

"Listen up, intern. This is a serious operation—resection of an aortic aneurysm. There will be a lot of blood, and the smell of cauterization is strong. This is not a movie. If you feel dizzy—if you faint, fall back. If you throw up face-first in the surgical field and puke on me—you'll lose your clearance. Understood?"

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He claps you on the shoulder, and you feel the strength in his hand. Then the professor looks you straight in the eyes, and his voice takes on a tinge of ice:

"And most importantly, if something happens to him..." the doctor points at the patient, "—whether it's your fault or an accident..." he pauses, "you'll be lying in his place. Will I be the one making Lego out of you? Questions?"

There are no questions and there cannot be.