Chapter 3
The Tape Line
Maxwell
There is a concept in surgery called the "Zone of Sterility."
It is a defined perimeter, an invisible forcefield that separates the clean from the dirty, the safe from the infected. Inside the zone, life is preserved. Outside the zone, chaos reigns.
I am currently staring at the Zone of Sterility I have attempted to create in Office 104.
It is failing.
"You’re staring at the floor again, Max. It’s weird."
I look up. Dr. Jax O’Connell is leaning back in his chair—which squeaks with the agonizing rhythm of a dying bird—balancing a half-eaten breakfast burrito on his chest.
"I am not staring," I say, adjusting the cuffs of my white coat. "I am assessing the structural integrity of the boundary I established."
I point to the floor.
Running directly down the centre of the cramped, windowless office is a strip of blue surgical tape. It starts at the door and ends at the far wall, bisecting the room with geometric precision.
On the left: My domain. My glass desk is polished. My laptop is aligned parallel to the edge. My single succulent, a Echeveria elegans, sits in a white ceramic pot, perfectly centred. The air on my side smells of sanitizer and high-end espresso.
On the right: The Exclusion Zone.
Jax’s desk is a biological hazard. There are three empty Red Bull cans forming a leaning tower. A stack of patient charts is being used as a coaster for a cup of coffee that I suspect has been there since Tuesday.
"The tape," Jax says, pointing his burrito at the blue line. "It’s very... passive-aggressive. I like it. Adds a certain Odd Couple vibe to the place. I’m clearly the fun one, which makes you the one who dies alone."
"I am Felix Unger," I correct him stiffly. "And he does not die alone. He simply refuses to live in filth."
"Whatever you say, Felix."
Jax sits up, brushing crumbs onto his scrubs. His gaze drifts to my desk. He frowns.
"Your plant looks depressed," he announces.
I freeze. I look at the Echeveria. It looks perfectly healthy. Its leaves are a robust, pale green. It is thriving in the precise amount of indirect artificial light I have calculated for it.
"It is not depressed," I say. "It is dormant. Succulents conserve energy."
"Nah," Jax says, shaking his head. "It’s bored. Look at it. It’s just sitting there in the silence. It needs stimulation. Maybe some heavy metal?"
"Plants do not like heavy metal," I snap, shielding the pot with my hand. "They respond to classical music and silence. Do not expose Frederick to Metallica. His leaves will wilt out of sheer acoustic trauma."
Jax’s eyes widen. A slow, delighted grin spreads across his face.
"Frederick?" he repeats. "You named it Frederick?"
I flush. "It is a dignified name for a dignified organism."
"Of course you did," Jax laughs. "He looks like a Frederick. Little stiff. Prickly. Needs to loosen up."
He leans across the tape line, invading my airspace.
"Don't worry, Fred," Jax whispers to the plant. "I’ll bust you out of here. We’ll go get tattoos."
"Do not speak to him," I order, turning back to my monitor. "You are disturbing his photosynthesis."
"I think he likes me," Jax says, settling back into his squeaky chair. "He’s leaning toward my side of the room."
"He is leaning toward the light source, which happens to be behind your head. It is phototropism, not affection."
"Keep telling yourself that, Max."
Jax takes a bite of the burrito. Salsa drips onto his scrub pants. He doesn't even flinch. He just wipes it away with his thumb.
I feel a physical twitch in my right eyelid.
"Do you ever stop eating?" I ask, trying to review the angiogram of a mitral valve repair I have scheduled for this afternoon.
"Calories in, calories out," Jax says with a full mouth. "Trauma burns a lot of fuel. You wouldn't understand. You guys in Cardio just stand in one place for six hours listening to classical music. It’s basically meditation with knives."
"It is precision," I snap. "It is the difference between a suture that holds for fifty years and one that leaks before the patient leaves the recovery room."
Jax laughs. It’s a deep, scratchy sound that vibrates in the small room. It is irritatingly warm.
"You’re so easy to wind up," he says. "It’s like pushing a button on a machine. Beep boop. Anger loading."
I ignore him. I focus on the screen. The pixelated image of the heart beats in greyscale loops. Focus. Mitral valve. Regurgitation.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
Jax is rocking in his chair.
I clench my jaw.
Squeak. Squeak.
"Is there a WD-40 shortage in this hospital?" I ask, not looking up. "Or do you simply enjoy the sound of metal grinding against metal?"
"It helps me think," Jax says.
"What could you possibly be thinking about that requires a soundtrack of torture?"
"Shoulder dislocation in Bay 4," Jax says instantly. The playfulness drops from his voice for a split second. "Kid fell off a ladder. Rotator cuff is torn. Trying to decide if I reduce it under sedation or take him up to surgery."
I pause. Despite his chaotic appearance, Jax O’Connell is widely considered a savant in the trauma bay. I saw it myself during the pileup three days ago. The man is a brute, but he is a brilliant brute.
"Sedation," I say, still looking at my screen. "If the vascular integrity is compromised, you want him awake enough to report sensation changes."
The squeaking stops.
I feel his eyes on me.
"Look at that," Jax says softly. "The Ice King has an opinion on orthopedic trauma."
"The circulatory system is connected to everything, Dr. O’Connell. Even shoulders."
"Thanks for the consult, Max."
"Maxwell."
"Right. Maxwell."
He stands up. I see the movement in my peripheral vision. He stretches, his arms reaching toward the water-stained ceiling tiles.
I make the mistake of looking.
His white coat falls open. His t-shirt rides up.
For a second, I see the skin of his stomach. It is tan, covered in a dusting of dark hair that trails downward into the waistband of his scrubs. My eyes traitorously travel up. His arms are exposed. Biceps flexed as he stretches.
I see the ink.
I noticed the tattoo on his left forearm before—a series of numbers—but I’ve never seen the rest. It’s a sleeve. Dark, intricate blackwork. Shading that looks like smoke. There is a geometric design near the elbow, something sharp and aggressive, softening into roses near the wrist.
And scars.
Interwoven with the ink are silvery, jagged lines. Burn marks? Shrapnel? They are old, healed, but they map a history of violence that fits poorly with the bright fluorescent lights of St. Jude’s.
He catches me looking.
I snap my eyes back to my computer screen so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
"See something you like?" Jax asks. His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an edge to it.
"I was examining the dermatological scarring," I lie smoothly. "You should have that checked. Scar tissue is prone to cellular mutation."
"It’s shrapnel, Max. Not melanoma."
He walks around his desk. He steps right over the blue tape line.
He stops next to my chair.
He is in my Zone.
My heart rate kicks up. 60 bpm to 85 bpm. Unacceptable.
"You are crossing the line," I say, staring straight ahead at my monitor.
"I need to use the printer," Jax says. "It’s on your side."
"I will print it for you."
"I’ve got hands, Doc."
He leans over me.
He is overwhelmingly present. He smells of spicy food, yes, but underneath that is something else. Old spice, laundry detergent, and the heat of a body that runs too hot. His arm brushes my shoulder as he reaches for the paper tray.
I stop breathing.
His forearm is inches from my face. I can see the coordinates tattooed there now. 31.55° N, 65.18° E. Afghanistan.
"Jax," I say. The name slips out. Not Dr. O’Connell. Jax.
He freezes. He doesn't pull back. He stays there, leaning over me, boxing me in against my glass desk.
"Yeah?" he murmurs.
I turn my head. Our faces are inches apart. I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. I can see the exhaustion—the dark purple bruises under his eyes that speak of nights spent awake. He looks wrecked. He looks dangerous.
"You..." I clear my throat, desperate to regain the upper hand. "You are out of paper."
Jax stares at me. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. The air in the room suddenly feels thick, heavy, like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks.
"Right," he whispers. "Paper."
The door bangs open.
"Dr. York! Dr. O'Connell!"
We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
Indira Singh, my resident, stands in the doorway, clutching a clipboard to her chest like a shield. She looks from me to Jax, her eyes wide.
"I... am I interrupting?" she squeaks.
"No," I say, smoothing my tie. My voice is an octave higher than usual. I force it down. "Not at all, Dr. Singh. Report."
"Um. The... the patient in 204. Mrs. Higgins. She’s complaining of chest pain."
"I’ll be right there," I say. I stand up, grabbing my tablet. I need to get out of this room. I need air. I need sterility.
I brush past Indira, walking fast.
"Hey, Max?" Jax calls out.
I stop in the hallway, but I don't turn around.
"You forgot your pen," he says.
I reach into my pocket. Empty. I left my favorite pen—the limited edition Montblanc—on the desk.
"Keep it," I say, walking away. "Consider it a peace offering. Just don't chew on it."
The rest of the day is a blur of rounds, consults, and the relentless bureaucracy of hospital administration.
I avoid Office 104.
I do my charting at the nurses' station in the ICU. I eat my lunch (a quinoa salad, eaten with a fork, in silence) in the hospital cafeteria’s "Quiet Zone."
But I can't avoid him forever.
At 7:00 PM, I finally return to the office to grab my coat. The renovation crew has stopped drilling for the night, leaving the hallway in an eerie, dusty silence.
I open the door to 104.
The lights are off. The only illumination comes from the streetlights outside filtering through the glass of the Trauma Bay across the hall.
Jax is there.
He is asleep.
He is slumped forward in his chair, his arms crossed on the messy desk, his head resting on his forearms. The squeaky chair is finally silent.
I stand in the doorway, watching him.
Asleep, the chaos is gone. The frantic energy that vibrates off him is dialed down to zero. He looks younger. The lines of tension around his mouth have smoothed out.
I should leave. I should grab my coat and walk out.
But I step inside. I close the door softly behind me.
I walk over to the tape line. I stop at the border.
I look at his desk. It’s a disaster. But right in the middle of the mess, sitting on top of a stack of files, is my Montblanc pen.
He didn't chew on it. He placed it on a clean napkin.
Then, I look at my desk.
Frederick is there, still perfectly centred. But something is different.
I lean closer.
Taped to the front of Frederick’s white ceramic pot is a tiny, hand-drawn piece of paper. It has been cut into the shape of a t-shirt. On it, drawn in black sharpie, is the jagged lightning bolt logo of AC/DC.
I stare at it.
Jax made my succulent a band t-shirt.
I look at Jax. He shifts in his sleep, a small, pained sound escaping his lips. He’s shivering. The heating in the basement is terrible, and he’s just in a t-shirt and scrubs.
I sigh. It is a sound of defeat.
I walk to the coat rack. I grab my spare cashmere cardigan—charcoal grey, ridiculously expensive, kept for donor meetings.
I cross the tape line.
I step into the Exclusion Zone.
Carefully, so as not to wake him, I drape the cardigan over his shoulders.
Jax sighs, burrowing into the warmth. He murmurs something unintelligible—a name? A command?
I stand there for a moment, looking down at the back of his neck, where the dark curls curl against his skin.
"Idiot," I whisper affectionately.
I retreat to my side of the room. I grab my coat. I look at Frederick one last time.
I do not remove the t-shirt.
I leave the office, making sure the door clicks shut silently.
As I walk to the parking garage, I can still feel the ghost of his heat against my shoulder where he leaned over me.
I take out my phone. I open my calendar app.
Renovation End Date: January 1st.
Twenty-six days.
I am not going to survive twenty-six days.