45
“Time of death: ten twenty-two p.m.,” Jesse said quietly.
No one else said a word.
He exited the theater, stripping off his gloves, face mask and gown, tossed them in a bin and kept walking.
You couldn’t save everyone.
As a trauma surgeon, he’d gotten used to the idea that most of his patients just weren’t going to make it. You saved the ones you could, and tried to learn something from the ones who were too far gone when they got to you. Once in a while, you got lucky when you didn’t deserve to.
Mom said you’re a miracle worker!
He’d really wanted a miracle tonight.
“Dr. Flores, wait!”
It was Margo, and she was worried about him.
“I’m going home,” he said, without slowing.
She followed him down the hall. “Do you want me to drive you?”
“No.”
“Jesse, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know.”
“At least there’s no family for you to talk to,” she suggested weakly.
He pushed open the door to the doctor’s lounge, knowing she wouldn’t follow him there. He really did not want to talk to Margo about his young patient’s lack of family. He went past the couches to the locker room, stripped naked, and got under a stream of scalding hot water.
And he cried.
Tears rolled down his face unchecked, mingling with the tap water. He hadn’t cried over a patient since early in his residency, but it wasn’t hard to figure out why this one had gotten to him: he’d felt like he was looking down at himself on the table. Hispanic youth, fourteen or fifteen years old, clearly homeless. A runaway. Lanky build, underweight, thick, straight hair a couple of inches too long. They even had the same blood type.
But no fairy godmother with a barrette in her hair had come for this kid, and no stone-faced commando had been standing watch over him tonight.