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Arnor, spring, Third Age 2981
“Oh good, you’re here. Go scrub in, willya? I need a hand.”
A few minutes later Elrohir shoulders through the swinging doors at the back of the cramped little covered wagon and says, “I don’t have time to give you a hand. Where’s Falchanar.”
“He’s inside juggling the rush. Are you ready yet?”
“Hold your dang horses…”
He’s been slow since we were kids. Not sure how much longer I can hang on, this is getting worse by the minute. I mark my case’s vitals while I wait. Pulse and breathing I hear clearly in the quiet of the makeshift theatre in spite of Elrohir’s rummaging around. Blood pressure, saturation, respiratory pattern...
“Alright, what do you need.”
I need more nurses, but he’ll do in a pinch. I’m up to my wrists in a ruptured abdominal cavity and I can’t turn and point, so I jerk my chin in the general direction. “The cupboard there.”
“Here?”
“One more over. Should be a bucket with some odds and ends. I don’t think it has a label.”
“None of them do. Why am I—”
“It’s the white one, with the cap.”
“Okay…”
“Now get some on your finger and put it on my freaking neck, please.”
Silence for a moment. He better be doing what I told him, I’m about to lose my ever-loving mind. “Elrohir…”
The collar of my scrubs lifts away. My brother says with great amusement, “Company in bed, I see.”
“Get a move on, I’ve got things to do.”
“I’ve heard the guys say you can keep them away if you smear some p—”
“Yes, thank you for the anecdote. Would you please grease up the bug-bites and then get the hell out of my surgery?”
“I thought you needed a hand.”
“This is the hand.”
He leans over my shoulder. “Just the one perforation? Repair or resect?”
“Go get gloved up if you want to offer consultation.”
“I don’t.” He passes behind me to the head of the table and lays his hands briefly against the sides of my anesthetized and intubated patient’s head. He stands there for a moment staring down.
I say, “You know him?”
“Nah. Probably know his dad, though.”
He steps out and for a moment I think he has excused himself on to some other duty but then I hear again the sounds of the washtand in use. When he comes back in he has availed himself of a scrub apron and mask and he says as he breaks open an envelope of sterile gloves, “How’s the itching.”
“Better, thanks. I need some drivers loaded, and the cautery in a minute. Think you can manage that?”
“What’s that, the pointy one?”
He’s good help, though. Don’t actually have to tell him anything, and we run the bowel and get the kid closed up before dark comes and makes it harder. Too bad I can’t keep him around here at base, but they’re shipping out again first thing in the morning.