Page 131 of The Love Operation

I blink at him. “I already had my evaluation.”

He nods. “This is apparently the surprise version.”

What a delightful Monday gift. I should repay Vaughn for his kindness. I eye the surgical equipment on the back table.

I like Dr. Wal. Technically, we compete for patients, but I have to give credit where credit’s due. He’s an amazing spine surgeon—capable, kind, and extremely knowledgeable. Still, I don’t want him here. Not today.

I can operate tired. That’s not the issue. But after what this weekend did to my brain, I don’t need the added pressure of someone in the room taking notes.

As if on cue, the OR lights go full-on poltergeist, flaring like floodlights at a stadium.

Oh dear God.

I blink, but the light refracts, bending and doubling like I’m underwater. Then, just as fast, everything rights itself.

I think about canceling. I really do. But what would I even say? The patient’s already prepped and draped. There’s no going back.

I head out of the room, scrub quickly, then reenter.

The scrub tech slides a gown onto my outstretched arms, and the circulating nurse ties it in the back. The gown feels stiff and tight, even though I know it isn’t. The snap of my gloves on my wrists makes me jump.

I roll my shoulders. Get it together, Cord. You’re being evaluated for chief.

This is supposed to be my sanctuary, the place where everything else fades away. But today, it feels like ghosts followed me inside.

“Time-out,” the circulating nurse announces, clipboard in hand.

I listen—except I don’t. My focus slips. I miss the level. I know we’re at L4-L5 for a revision, but I didn’t actually hear it. “Can you repeat that, Lana?”

“It’s not Lana,” Dahlia says. “Lenora’s in here today.”

My eyes snap up for confirmation. She’s right. How did I miss that?

“Oh. Sorry. I’m used to Lana being with me.” I clear my throat. “Go ahead. Let’s restart.”

I pay extra-close attention, then I palpate the spine, confirm we’re where we need to be.

I hold out my hand. “Knife.”

The blade slaps into my palm, and I steady. The moment I cut—skin, subcutaneous, down to fascia—a wave of focus rolls in. I find my rhythm, and the team finds theirs. Suction, retractor, Bovie. Dance steps we all know.

Then—damn it! Clear fluid starts to fill the wound.

“Dural tear?” Dahlia says.

“Yeah.” A knot forms in my throat, as if someone’s trying to intubate me while I’m awake.

There was no way to avoid it. Scar tissue from the first fusion was brutal. Still, the timing couldn’t be worse. I’ll repair it, but now it’s part of Dr. Wal’s report.

And then—a metal retractor clatters off the back table, crashing to the floor.

I flinch so hard my shoulders jerk toward my ears. The sound is too loud, like a cymbal crashing inside my head. But no one else reacts. No one but me. They’re fine. I’m the one malfunctioning.

It finally abates.

I press a sponge gently over the dura to control the CSF leak and open my mouth to ask for the patch—only to discover the word is gone. The name of the kit, the type of patch, the type of suture I use—blank. My mind scrambles, clawing through my training.

Nothing.