— "AAAAA!" a heavy scream echoed from the bedroom.
After a long, deep silence: "Ouch... it was just a dream...," Andrew muttered, groping for his sweaty forehead while breathing heavily. Reluctantly, he got up, sat for a moment until his consciousness recovered, and with great fatigue pulled on his trousers. In haste, he dragged a randomly chosen shirt over his head and hurried into the kitchen – for in ten minutes he was supposed to leave.
Still breathless, he swallowed stinking, crunchy piece of bread that never filled him. He never woke up earlier and never arrived on time. These were such frequent and regular events for him that Andrew would not even want to change anything.
It was always a problem – and one day it could cause an inevitable accident. Because Andrew worked as a cardiac surgeon. And on that very day, like almost every other, he had a surgery scheduled.
After a swift twenty minutes, he was already rushing into the hospital. When he entered the building, he immediately stopped at the entrance and stood still in the corridor – long, sprawling – which at this hour was usually crowded with afflicted patients.
But at late times it usually seemed like a dark, endless, neglected path into the unknown. The very white, intrusive walls surrounding him pressed uncomfortably into his consciousness and burned his eyes.
The smell – or rather the stench of ammonia – was so familiar and close to him that it followed him every day: morning, afternoon, night... even outside of work.
With the very first step into his workplace – in a moment he must never lose – a wave of dislike and disgust hit him. He knew everything here perfectly. And most of all: he could do everything.
— "Hi!" he said and waved at the receptionist. He pulled a smile onto his face, weak but careful, just as he always did. Then he quickly walked toward the operating room.
The moment the airtight doors opened, a wave of memories crashed over him – images of cuts, punctures, excisions, enucleations, and other painful procedures. They all hit his mind like a blow. A cold shiver froze him on the spot – goosebumps ran over his body, and his hair stood up like guards. He became completely stiff.
The room shone and glared so strongly it hurt the eyes. It was painted so much that it cracked through with holes.
When Andrew walked in, a covered patient was already lying on the operating table, showing no signs of life, with anesthesia applied.
Andrew must focus. He must stay steady – stand firm before the operating table, clear away useless thoughts, and take back control of himself. Otherwise his heartbeat will weaken, his blood pressure will fail, and broken breathing will be replaced by the sharp beeping and humming of the EKG and other machines that monitor the patient's vital signs.
With every chance to stand at that table, Andrew falls more and more under the influence of doubt. Each time it is harder to control the uncertainty about the success of the surgery – and just as hard to make his body stop releasing endless sweat from his palms.
After maybe two hours – perhaps even longer – a heavy sigh rose from everyone present. The machine that showed the patient's vital signs suddenly went silent, and its clean, monotone, arrhythmic hum echoed in everyone's ears for a moment longer.
The body that had lain there motionless the whole time, unchanged, was quietly lifted and taken away from Andrew's sight.
Even after all these years his experience still could not convince him that time can calm the parents who, right outside the door, were breaking the silence with crying and desperate screams.
For a while longer he stood still by the operating table.
It is hard to touch the fate of another, flashed through his mind. A thought he did not want to agree with.
— "Doctor...?" The door opened slightly, quietly, and uncertainly.
Andrew suddenly woke from his thoughts: "Yes?"
In front of him stood an older woman. She looked tired – with swollen eyes and dark circles under them. Her hair was messy, and she wore a simple, plain work uniform. In her hands she held a piece of paper.
When she took off her rubber gloves, she reached out her hand:
— "Here… Doctor. Someone delivered a letter for you. They said it's important."
Andrew looked strangely at her hand, in which she held the paper. He didn't hurry – he slowly took it from her, without looking at it right away.
— "Hmm… all right. Thank you," he said quietly.
The woman, without a word, obediently handed over the paper and was about to leave, when he stopped her:
"And who…," she paused, "who was it, please? Who gave you the letter?" Andrew asked with interest.
— "It was some lady, Doctor," she answered after a moment.
— "Aha... all right, thank you," he said one last time with a hint of quiet surprise.
When he was finally alone, in his long gown, in the room slowly filled with the dim light of the setting sun, which touched his face, rested on his still wrinkles, and climbed with its shadows up to the ceiling, only then did he look at the paper.
The writing was simple. Just two words:
"Don't give up."
At the moment he read the last letter, the door suddenly burst open.
A rushing woman ran inside.
— "Good evening. My name is Lyle."
Andrew looked at the woman before him in confusion. She wore a tight skirt with a white layered blouse tucked into it, with a powdery pearly shade. The blouse fell loosely on her arms and made her slim waist stand out.
— "You probably don't know me…," her voice grew suspiciously quiet, "but I know you… I know you." She stepped closer to Andrew.
— "Sorry, how can I help you?"
— "Andrew…" her voice trembled. The man stood in hesitation, listening with growing interest. "You must wake up… please." Sharp and strong words struck him.