The smells of ozone, burnt fabric, and melted rubber were the first thing he noticed. Second, the feeling of mud under him and the patter of rain above him. Despite the cool water, his body felt hot—like he was a burrito microwaved for too long and left in a freezer to cool. When he rose from the ground he realized that his shoes were gone and his clothes were, for the most part, gone too. Michael looked around and tried to remember whether or not there had been someone else at the bus stop with him. Sometimes a neighbor girl from down the way, Rebecca, rode the bus to school with him. Today, Michael was alone.

​

He stumbled and reached for the bus stop sign. He looked around and realized it was one of the tallest things in the barren plains surrounding the farm road he was on. The water in the fields covered the tips of the grass and shifted endlessly under the raindrops and wind. He probably shouldn’t have been leaning against anything tall during a thunderstorm, but it was only in hindsight that he’d realized what a horrible idea it was. He glared at the sign and saw his hand was touching it, but he couldn’t feel his palm on the metal.

​

Michael pulled his right hand away and looked at it for a while. There was a tree-like mark spanning from his ring finger to his shoulder, where the branches peeked out from his tattered clothes and forked down along his torso to end on his left foot. It was the first thing to regain feeling, and Michael wished it hadn’t. It felt like boiling water had seared its way through his veins. He cradled his arm to his chest as if he could soothe it and shifted his weight to the right. His left hand fumbled for his phone only to find the screen shattered and the buttons unresponsive. It looked like he was stuck waiting for the damn bus.

 

The man drags the scalpel along the skin of the oblique abdominal area to reveal layers of fat, muscle, and connective tissue. He peels back the layers until the right kidney is exposed. The surgery tech uses suction to clear the field of blood. He gives her a curt nod of appreciation. The kidney is darker than it should be and has a gravelly texture. Dr. Chirurgas curls his lip in disgust behind his mask. Diseased organs never cease to revolt him.

​

“It’s a good thing we got the organs when we did, this lady was about to cross over. It’s a miracle that we got a donor in the nick of time,” the surgical tech comments.

​

“It’s never a good thing when someone has to die for another to live, but the timing can be called miraculous if that’s your thing,” the surgeon replies with a tone of dismissal. Coincidences like timing do not enter his mind much anymore.

​

People died, and those living with poor organ function had the opportunity to benefit from the bodies of  the dead. In this case, the donor’s heart and lungs aren’t usable, not uncommon in Dr. Chirurgas’s experience, but everything else from the body is completely functional.

It’s unusual for an organ donor to be viable for more than a couple of specific organ donations, but this donor is completely free of complications like diabetes, drug use, or transmittable diseases.

​

It’s always a nice surprise to come along a proper donor.

​

Dr. Chirurgas works within a retractor-framed window to clamp the renal veins, sever them, and remove the crater-pocked kidney.

​

“Trade me organs, please.”

​

He’s eager to be rid of the diseased kidney and turns to pass it off. He’s even more eager to implant the new kidney; as much as he hates diseased organs, he loves to see healthy ones come to life in a recipient.

​

As the head nurse pulls the healthy kidney from the cooler, he bumps into the surgery tech on his way across the room. The healthy kidney ruptures when it hits the floor and Dr. Chirurgas’s face turns a deep shade of maroon bordering on purple. He tries to steady himself with deep breaths, but the thundering pulse in his head prevents him from calming down.

​

Then he does something unprecedented in the San Antonio Methodist operating room. He hurls the diseased kidney across the room. It bursts on the scrubs of the head nurse whose eyes flinch shut before they widen above his surgical mask. Wounded confusion wells in the nurse’s eyes, but the transplant surgeon doesn’t see it past the mental image of himself telling the recipient and the donor’s family why both patients were swindled out of a kidney.

​

There’s a charge oppressing the room. No one moves. No one speaks. Everything is seemingly put on pause until the surgeon rips away his mask and storms from the room, leaving the rest of the surgical team to close the patient’s abdomen.

 

Nolan County was known for having the most concentrated amount of lightning strikes in all of Texas, but no one ever expected to get struck. Michael’s doctor told him he was blessed to escape generally unscathed from the lightning strike. Despite the trickling stream of burns falling from his neck downwards and a small degree of nerve damage to the arm that was in contact with the sign, he was unharmed. His family’s doctor said it was a miracle that it didn’t cause his cardiorespiratory system to shut down or fry his brain in his skull.

​

The only long-term consequence was several months of physical therapy to make sure he kept full function of his right arm. That arm should’ve been burnt to a crisp, or melted to the pole of that damn bus sign, or something. Michael and his parents didn’t care to look a gift horse in the mouth. His parents just thanked their lucky stars and focused every spare moment on their only child’s recovery. His hands were his future.

 

The therapy was hell on both Michael and his family’s finances, but his parents were willing to do whatever it took for him to keep the full function of his hand. While his hand eventually started to work like it had before, the scars that mapped his veins refused to fade regardless of the various skin treatments he tried.

​

Sure, the bus ride to school was embarrassing that day. But people had short attention spans and moved on to other things within a couple of months. Michael wore long sleeves that hid the angry red reminder of the incident, and people learned that his answers to their questions weren’t worth shit anyway. It wasn’t something he could really remember clearly, and Michael didn’t care to learn the science behind it.

 

It was during his high school graduation that he noticed there seemed to be more than a scar left over from the lightning strike. He gave his valedictorian speech mainly to his parents’ camera, and they clapped afterward as if he were a master orator. Once the ceremony was over, they ushered him back onto the stage to stand next to the principal. Mr. Shaw always tried to give off a “tough love” vibe in his interactions with the student body. Michael usually got less of the tough bit. Michael’s pride made his spine straight, but his anxiety made his hands shake as he reached out to grasp the principal’s hand. During the handshake for graduation photos, scratchy robes chafed his scars and the valedictorian medal weighted his neck like a yoke, Mr. Shaw flinched and gave him a glare he’d never pointed Michael’s way before. The glare made his heart rate spike and he felt like air bubbles were forcing their way through his blood. 

​

“Michael, do you really have a joy buzzer on your hand right now? I thought someone with such a bright future would be beyond senior pranks,” Mr. Shaw’s voice held more than a hint of indignation and it seemed he was trying to pull his hand away from Michael.

​

In response, Michael pulled his own hand away to reveal that his palm was empty. They both stared at the smoke rolling off of the principal’s swollen, bright red hand. Micheal gave the principal a confused look that Mr. Shaw returned.

 

“Dr. Chirurgas.” The head of the hospital addresses him sternly. His years of work with her make it unusual to hear her use anything other than his first name.

​

“I know, I overreacted. But that was a perfectly healthy donor kidney, and now Mrs. Nils will be working with only one of her very diseased kidneys for who knows how long!” His voice steadily rises at the seriousness of the patient’s condition and the consequences of his coworker’s clumsiness. He hopes that the upset quality of his tone is appropriate because he feels more strongly than he allows himself to experience.

​

“Sit down.”

​

“Look, I can apologize to the guy. I really shouldn’t have reacted that way. It was unprofessional of me.” The surgeon humbly bows his head. Instead of looking the director in the face, he looks at the framed Kodak moment on her desk.

​

“You’re damn right it was unprofessional! What the fuck were you thinking–throwing a kidney at someone! Who does that?”

​

In response, the surgeon reluctantly raises his hand in an attempt at charm. “Me?”

​

“Just get out of my office. I don’t have time for this shit. Today, or ever, you understand me? I don’t care how long we’ve known each other or what a unique asset to this hospital you are. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen and you know we don’t need the scrutiny. Now go.” By the sound of her voice and irritated gesture, he decides it’s best to leave the director with the last word.

​

​

After what happened at graduation, Michael decided he wanted to experiment. At first, he had no idea how to go about it. He cycled through different hand positions and gestures, but he couldn’t figure out what he did, why it happened, or even if it had happened.

​

One night in his front yard, Michael was overwhelmed by feelings of frustration and confusion. He started to think that he imagined it, that maybe it was just static electricity at graduation. As he looked out across the field towards where the sun melted into the horizon, he realized that under the frustration and confusion was a deep melancholy. He thought there was something special about what happened, but maybe he was wrong.

​

He was meant to leave home and go to college in a couple of weeks, and he had wasted hours on something that seemed to be entirely in his head. He worried the lightning strike did neurological damage the doctors missed, or he’d developed some mental illness from the stress of it all. They’d told his parents the situation could be considered traumatic and he might need a shrink to help him move on. He’d brushed off their concerns at the time, but now he wondered if they’d been right to bring it up. He questioned if it was fate, God, some kind of cosmic karma, or purely the chaos of chance that caused him to be struck. Was this how people diagnosed with cancer felt?

​

He pitched himself forward off of the awning’s pillar and began to pace. Was there something wrong with him? Would he even know if there was? Would his parents notice, and if they did, would they tell him? Would they care if he was unstable, or would they simply brush it under the rug and continue to push him toward their vicarious success?

​

He felt like a can of soda, like he’d been cracked open and the carbonation of his thoughts had risen up only to dissipate into the environment like nothing at all and leave him as only a flat, acidic beverage no one wanted to drink. He dragged his hands through his hair until his palms pressed into his eye sockets. He pretended not to notice the tears his hands found there, but he couldn’t. With a whine that grew to a growl, Michael turned and slammed his right fist into the post he’d leaned on before.

​

He slowly walked away from the house as he clenched and unclenched his scarred hand, then shook it in futile attempts to chase away the pain. The prominence the ache lingered with told him he’d have to ice it later so his parents didn’t see any swelling. Michael turned to go back inside, and his eyes lingered on the angry red of his knuckles. When he looked up from his hand at the post, he noticed there was a mark on the support beam. Rather than the dent he’d been expecting, there was a slanted row of four knuckle-sized crescents burned into the wood.

 

He is the first of the Chirurgas family to graduate college, let alone medical school, internship, and residency. Despite his success, he still feels pressure to do better. He hears the echoes of his parents telling him that there’s always room to improve, there’s always some part of himself that he can make better.

​

In the medical community, he’s well known for the number of organ harvests and transplants he’s done as well as his success rates. In his select social circle, he’s renowned for his dedication to personal health and wellness. He’d always been purely academic during his schooling, but without an education to focus on, he spends much of his time finding what he considers a personal balance. He has multiple gym memberships, explores various organic food markets, and donates blood regularly.

​

His internship still nags him. Dr. Chirurgas had his fair share of patient deaths during the beginning of his career. The deaths follow him like storm clouds that are waiting to unleash themselves, one in particular. He feels the existence of those failures acutely. Like the ouroboros, the head containing his mind circles to eat at every other piece of himself. The voices of the dead and the grieving eyes of their families plague him; they reign over his mind during times of idleness or stagnancy. Their presence brands itself upon his mind and the only times he can mute them are in surgery or during his pursuit for self-betterment.

 

After he punched the wooden post, Michael felt he’d figured out this lightning-borne ability. He could summon it with strong emotion, and it only ever surfaced in his right hand. It wasn’t some Zeus-like ability to throw bolts of lightning, but more of a hand-taser.

​

Michael never had a penchant for violence before, but the curiosity about his newfound ability overrode that.

​

Bored, he burned handprints into a rotting log, and soon after he gained the ability to ignite the entire thing in irritation. He put his hand in a pond one day, dozens of fish floated to the surface belly up. He melted car frames at the junkyard when he needed to vent.

​

Ultimately, the destruction became boring. Now that he understood what drove the power, he wanted a challenge. All wood burned the same, every car melted the same as the last one, and the pond of cooked fish got too much coverage on the local news. The challenge was no longer how hot he could make things or widening his field of conduction. Instead, it became a matter of finesse and precision. Michael learned that he didn’t always have to be upset to summon the electricity. He learned that he could repair jewelry with the tip of his finger and charge electronics when he held the outlet end of chargers. He learned that he could power his house for hours. Eventually, he tired of these things too.

 

Dr. Chirurgas decides to take his monthly visit to a place of personal balance after the kidney situation at work. His opportunities present themselves most commonly at the gym, the organic grocery store, and the blood bank. This month will be the blood drive since Mrs. Nils’s condition is fresh in his mind.

​

The workers check his vascularity and prick his finger to test his iron before hooking him up to a bag. They always seem happy to see him. He chalks it up to having O negative in his veins. Their friendliness serves a purpose, however. Calling him “doctor” and acting familiar with him makes him seem more approachable to the other blood donors in the facility.

​

“How are you doing, Doc? No faintness or anything?” One of the older phlebotomists checks in, Nancy if he remembers right.

​

“Oh, of course not. You know me, always hydrated and good on iron.” The surgeon tries not to let the frustration of his day infect his voice, and his tone comes across as polite yet reserved. Nancy leaves him with a smile and a wave.

​

The man sitting next to him turns and catches his eye. “So, you’re here often then? I come in because I feel it gives me some good karma,” the man chuckles and his smile stretches his mustache across his face. Dr. Chirurgas doesn’t particularly care for mustaches, but this man looks to be healthy enough. He’s reasonably young and in shape with no visible signs of poor lifestyle choices. When the surgeon glances at the man’s donation bag, he notices the man has the same blood type as Mrs. Nils.

​

“I hear you. Every time I see a terminal patient, I come in and give another pint in the hopes it’ll save someone who actually has a chance.”

​

“So Doc isn’t just a nickname then? I’m Nathan, by the way. A doctor donating, ha! Like you need any more good karma. Next you’ll tell me you’re an organ donor.” The man chuckles again.

​

“You aren’t?” Dr. Chirurgas asks. “And you can call me Mike,” he adds as an afterthought.

​

“Well, no, my wife tries to get me to change my mind sometimes, but...” Nathan twists his wedding band and trails off for a moment. “I just can’t imagine going into my grave all carved up without my guts in me, I guess.”

​

“Oh, well that’s a shame. You could save a lot of lives you know, imagine the good karma you’d get for saving them. And if your wife is your healthcare proxy in your will, then it won’t really matter what you’re comfortable with.” The surgeon takes a certain satisfaction in the flash of worry that flits across the man’s face.

​

The man looks down at his bag of blood anxiously, and Dr. Chirurgas’s eyes follow. Nathan’s bag is almost full, but so is his. “I don’t mean to be disagreeable, I just have a different perspective as a doctor. How about we grab some pie at a diner nearby after this? They have a great selection and I’m happy to buy.” He makes his voice soothing and amicable, and it lulls Nathan back into a state of comfort. The offer of pie serves just as much purpose as his familiarity with the staff because it reveals the state of Nathan’s pancreas.

​

“Well, I guess I don’t see why not,” Nathan seems a little thrown off by the offer, but the way his eyes take in Dr. Chirurgas’s hospital uniform reveals trust in his station.

 

It was during the transition from fall to winter when Michael found a dog in a field on his parents’ property. He was home for Thanksgiving but was feeling a bit smothered by his parents’ questions about school. He’d gone for a walk to get some space. The land he wandered was covered in green and tan mottled grass that came to just below his knees. As he walked, it swished against his jeans rhythmically and made for a good accompaniment to his thoughts. 

​

At the edge of his family’s property, there was something matting the grass down. Michael neared it and found the dog. He approached the animal slowly and said “hey” in a soft voice a few times to no response. When he nudged it with the tip of his sneaker, it still didn’t move. Michael crouched down for inspection and noticed a collar; the tag read “Kodak” and listed the address of the neighbor girl that sometimes rode the bus with him in high school. The dog’s face was masked in gray and the color flecked the rest of Kodak’s thick, tawny coat. Michael knelt and laid his hand against the dog’s side. Kodak was still warm, which was odd with the chilly November weather, and Michael didn’t feel any signs of breathing or a heartbeat.

​

Michael acted on half impulse and half intuition when he laid his right hand on the lower part of Kodak’s chest. It wasn’t something he’d ever tried before, but the dog was already dead so he couldn’t exactly worsen the situation. He focused and sent a lightning bolt through his fingertips. The dog didn’t move, so he repositioned his hand a little and tried again with more power. This time the animal jolted a little under his palm but remained still otherwise. Michael sighed in frustration and shame. It felt like he’d desecrated a good Samaritan.

​

As he pulled his hand away from Kodak’s body, the tips of the shaggy fur rose to meet his palm in the rhythm of breath.

​

Kodak’s eyes were as wide as Michael’s when he rolled from his side to his belly. The dog looked at him and tilted its head in a typical show of canine confusion. Michael thought he saw some sort of primal understanding that sparkled in Kodak’s eyes. The dog sprung forward to rest his paws on Michael’s shoulders, which knocked him from his crouch onto his ass. Kodak was giving Michael’s face a tongue bath when Rebecca arrived.

​

“Oh, thank God you found him, I was so worried he’d been hit by a car or his heart had given out,” her voice was frantic and her eyes were watery. Kodak left Michael to reunite with Rebecca, where he leaned against her legs and craned his head back to look at her. His ears flopped back and his doggy grin was broken only by his lolling tongue.

​

“He, um, he seemed sick, but I think he’s feeling better now.” Michael shifted from foot to foot and rubbed at his scar.

​

“Yeah, Kodak’s pretty old now. At his last visit to the vet, they told us his heart is getting weaker.” Rebecca’s voice cracked and she looked away from Michael as she scratched behind Kodak’s ears.

​

“Jeez, that’s pretty shitty...” Michael wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so he continued to fidget.

​

“Anyway,” Rebecca cleared her throat and rubbed her eyes as if it would stave off the emotions present there, “how’s life after high school? I’m here for the holidays, but I’ve been living with my uncle and taking courses in San Antonio.”

​

“Really? I’m actually here for the holidays from San Antonio, too. I’m working my way up to med school. What’re your courses for?” Michael tried hard not to feel hopeful at the way her expression shifted from upset to excited. Friends weren’t easy with his affliction, and it was simpler to keep people at a distance. Rebecca seemed like a good person, and she didn’t deserve the problems Michael knew he would bring her.

​

“That’s crazy! I’m working on a healthcare administration degree, it’s my dream to run a hospital.” Her voice held the hope Michael was afraid of, and he tried to smile in a way that would mask his worry.

 

Dr. Chirurgas is happy to exit the blood bank to rain. It’s nice when the weatherman is right. Nathan follows Dr. Chirurgas without suspicion and makes small talk about the weather and his home life. The doctor stops listening once he’s sure that Nathan doesn’t have kids, but outwardly he gives the impression of interest.

​

“Hey, if we turn here we can cut off half a block of walking,” Dr. Chirurgas says as he motions to an alley.

​

“Sounds good to me! I’m not a fan of walking in the rain.” Nathan’s disposition is jovial, and the surgeon wonders if he has many friends or hobbies. If he’s willing to walk around with a stranger in the rain for some free pie, then he probably doesn’t have many of either.

​

The two men turn down the alley. It’s crowded and dark with trash cans lining the brick walls. The rain intensifies the smell of garbage and asphalt. Dr. Chirurgas motions Nathan ahead of him, and the man complies.

​

When they get to the diner, the surgeon picks a booth near the kitchen.

​

“I like to get my food as soon as it’s ready, y’know?” He smiles at Nathan, who gives him a chuckle.

​

“Never thought of picking my seat that way, but it makes sense,” Nathan replies.

​

“So, you said it’s just you and your wife? Been together long?”

​

“Oh, uh, yeah it’s just us. We’ve only been married for about a year, kinda why I was shocked about the whole ‘healthcare proxy’ thing you mentioned,” Nathan shifts uncomfortably near the end of his response.

​

“It’s certainly not something I expect young, healthy people like yourself to think about so early on. Tell me about your year of marriage, I’ve never married myself, so I’m curious.”

​

Nathan sees the friendly face the doctor is wearing but doesn’t seem fully convinced. Dr. Chirurgas decides it’s time to amp up his game.

​

“Okay, okay. I’ll share something, and then you share something. Fair enough?”

​

“I guess.”

​

“Alright, so you already know I’m a transplant surgeon. What I haven’t told you is why I picked that specialty over all the others, care to hear it?”

​

“That does seem like a pretty significant thing for a doctor to decide. Sure, I’ll bite.”

​

“Great!” The surgeon briefly closes his eyes and, keeping his elbows close, gives a gesture outward with his palms.

​

“So. During my internship, this is after years of schooling, I had this patient, right?”

​

“Right.” Nathan parrots to show he’s listening.

​

“I can’t give names, HIPAA violation, but we’ll call him John. John had a heart problem, we didn’t know the specifics at the time, we just knew his heart wasn’t working properly. We never did learn what was wrong.”

​

“John had a bad heart, got it.”

​

The waiter shows up during this pause and takes their orders: a slice of key lime and a slice of cherry. Once the waiter is gone, the story resumes.

​

“I got close to John during his stay at the hospital, he was with us for at least three months because of how bad his heart was. He was waiting for a replacement heart, but the hospital decided he might as well wait at home because his blood type is hard to find in donors. Now, this is where the personal part comes in, okay?”

​

Dr. Chirurgas inspects Nathan’s face to make sure he’s hanging on every word. Nathan looks appropriately invested with his forward-leaning posture.

​

“I was the intern assigned to his case for the duration of his inpatient stay. I was there when his wife and kids came to catch him up on all that he was missing, when his work buddies came by with casseroles and get-well-soon cards, even when his 80-year-old mother came by. I remember thinking it was silly of her to bring balloons and flowers, but I’m unbelievably grateful now.”

​

“Why would you be grateful his mom brought him balloons and flowers?”

​

The kitchen door and waiter interrupt the story again. The waiter lays the plates in front of them and leaves without a word. The doctor stares at his slice of cherry pie. There are misshapen cherries and red syrup oozing from the sides.

​

“He died soon after that.” Dr. Chirurgas says.

​

“Oh! Oh... Th-that’s... How?”

​

“Well, he was actually being released the day it happened. It wa—”

​

“Jesus!”

​

“I know, trust me. Anyways, it was rainy that day. Flash flood level rainy. Being assigned to his case, I was the one to discharge John. I was pretty upset he was leaving… Of course, I felt unsatisfied discharging him without an answer to his heart problems, he should’ve at least gotten a diagnosis, if not the replacement heart. But I also felt like I was losing a friend.” The doctor looks down at his pie through a film of tears and pokes at the gory-looking cherry filling with his fork. He continues, “I was so upset the day he left. I was too emotional to think right.”

​

“Wait, so what happened? How’d John die?”

 

Michael was a third-year surgical intern. Samael Zenos was his biggest case yet, and he still hadn’t found out what was wrong with the man’s heart. The resident on the case had deemed Sam as fit as he’d ever be without a new heart. It was decided it’d be best to discharge him to his family until a donor’s heart was available. There was nothing more the hospital had to offer him until then.

​

“I guess this is it, huh?” Sam gave Michael a sad smile and a pat on the back.

​

“So it is, yeah...” Michael didn’t look up from the get-well-soon cards he was collecting from Sam’s nightstand.

​

“Hey, I know ya did the best ya could. This just isn’t a problem that can be fixed. Even the big leaguers were stumped, so don’t think it’s all on you, okay Mike?” Sam’s voice and words were reassuring, but the intern wasn’t swayed.

​

Michael turned and put the stack of cards into the box of Sam’s things. He’d accumulated a lot over the weeks and months of his stay: two casserole dishes that had only been partially eaten, balloons and flowers from his mom, amazing charcoal drawings from his teenage son, his elementary-aged daughter’s stuffed tiger, a quilt his wife brought to make the room homier. All of it was packed into a single cardboard box, like some sort of budget time capsule.

​

“Is your family picking you up?” Michael asked.

​

“Ha! I wish. The missus can’t take any more time off’a work, so I’m gettin’ a cab.”

​

“That’s total bullshit, I’ll drive you!”

​

“No, no son. It’ll only make sayin’ goodbye that much harder. You’ve done enough for me here. Ya did right by me already.” Sam’s eyes were watery as he clasped Michael’s shoulder.

​

“Okay... okay. I guess we should get you to the lobby then.”

​

Their pace was slow as they left what had been Sam’s room for the past three months. Michael carried Sam’s time capsule with both arms wrapped around it, and Sam steadied his gait by leaning into his hold on Michael’s shoulder.

​

When they got to the lobby, they could see a cab waiting in the dropoff/pickup zone of the parking lot.

​

“Rainin’ hard out there, isn’t it?”

​

The rain outside was falling so heavily that the cars parked in the lot were only dark blurs against a slightly lighter background. It was only a little after six in the evening, but the clouds swallowed the sun whole and let no light shine through. The streetlights made small cones of sterile, blue-white light that didn’t do much else but highlight the drops of rain as they fell. The reflection of artificial light made everything seem smeared together, like outside the hospital was a muted, messy watercolor.

​

“It really is. Here, I’ll carry the box out for you.”

​

The two men stepped out into the buffeting curtains of rain the wind blew into them despite the hospital’s awning. Michael gestured to the trunk in the hopes the driver would see, and thankfully the trunk lid popped. He jogged around and put the time capsule safely into the trunk before coming back around to stand in front of Sam. Even under the awning, they both stood in a puddle deep enough their shoes had soaked through to the socks.

​

“I really will miss you, Sam. You’re the only one that’s taken the time to get to know me here.”

​

“Aw, no foolin’ me, son. Now c’mere,” Sam opened his arms for a hug that Michael eagerly reciprocated.

​

Wrapped in the older man’s arms, Michael couldn’t help but feel the weight of the situation. Samael was leaving and would probably die before he got a heart. Michael had little to no chance of seeing him again. Tears and sobs spilled from him all at once, and he squeezed his now former patient tightly. As he cried, he was unknowingly generating volts that spread from himself, to Sam, and the puddle of water they were standing in.

​

It was only thanks to the cab driver’s hysterical shouts through the passenger window that Michael became aware of Sam’s convulsing state. When he distanced himself from the embrace, Sam’s body fell into him. Sam’s deadweight knocked Michael to the ground and pinned him there. Before he could struggle his way out from underneath Sam’s body, the cab had sped off.

 

Sam did die before he got his new heart after all.

 

The story is the wrong approach it seems. It always is. It gets easier every time the doctor tells it, like each re-telling is another handful of dirt over Samael’s coffin. Once Nathan knew the ending, he got up and left the diner in a hurry. Half think he’s crazy after hearing the story if they get to hear it. The other half believe him. They all run, though.

​

Now, Dr. Chirurgas is following him down the alley they’d used as a shortcut. Their footsteps splash loudly down the cramped alleyway. At the mouth of the alley Nathan knocks down a trash can in an attempt to slow the surgeon’s pursuit, but he just sidesteps it. About halfway down the alley is when the doctor catches up to Nathan and makes his move.

​

He lays his hand on the back of Nathan’s neck, only the faintest contact is necessary. The fizzy feeling in the surgeon’s blood starts somewhere below his skull and travels down through his arm and into Nathan’s body where it debilitates his cardiorespiratory system.

​

Nathan goes stiff for a moment, then two, before slumping. Dr. Chirurgas catches him under the armpits and lowers him gently to the ground. He dials 911 and tells the operator in a false panic his location and that something is wrong with his friend, that he thinks Nathan was struck by lightning.

​

Then, Dr. Chirurgas calls Rebecca.

​

She answers, “Mike?”

​

“I’ve got a potential replacement kidney for Mrs. Nils, the ambulance should be here to get us soon.”

​

“This doesn’t fully make up for what happened in the O.R. today, Michael. You’d better patch things up with that nurse. You made him cry for fuck’s sake.” Despite Rebecca’s words, the director of the hospital sounds placated to Michael because of the smile he hears in her voice.

 

“The timing of these things is always so miraculous, huh?” She hangs up with a laugh.