NICK
The shower was a necessity, not for the hygiene, though that was paramount, but for the diagnostic review.
I stood under the spray, the heat bordering on scalding, and performed a post-operative analysis of my own sanity.
I reviewed the evening the way I review complex trauma cases: looking for the precise moment the logic failed.
The operating room had been logical. Saving Cassian Wolfe was a professional mandate.
The waiting room had been arguably logical; one cannot simply leave the family of a VIP injured on the linoleum.
The bathroom and the stitches were pushing the boundaries of my job description, but they remained within the realm of medical intervention.
My apartment, however, was completely indefensible.
Every person I have ever brought home had a reason for being there. There was a transaction involved, a mutual understanding of what the morning would look like.
