The call sliced the operating room in two. I was inside a brain—slick and ruby under a cathedral of light—easing a plane between two arteries that pulsed like red silk thread. Betadine hung in the air.
The monitor ticked in 70s, end‑tidal where I wanted it.
I was steady; I’m always steady. Then my circulating nurse leaned in close enough for her breath to fog her shield.
“Dr. Reynolds, urgent call from Westridge Academy.
They say it can’t wait.”
“Take a message,” I said, eyes on the seam where tumor gave way to self.
“They said it’s about your grandson. He’s been expelled.”
The tip of my scalpel hovered a hair above living brain. Outside, no one would have noticed.
Inside, a floor fell away.
“I don’t have a grandson,” I said evenly. “They were… insistent.”
“Bovie.” I sealed a capillary ooze, irrigated, watched the pink rawness blanch and settle.
“Clip,” I told the resident. “Hold your retractor like it owes you rent.” A PVC blipped on the EKG and vanished.
“We’re fine,” anesthesia said.
Ten minutes later, while silk drew skin together in perfect little bites, the nurse returned. “They called back. The principal asked for you by name—‘Dr.
Eliza Reynolds, Chief of Neurosurgery at Memorial.’ Exact words.
‘Your grandson is in my office. You need to come now.’”
“Name?” I asked, because the mind wants facts when reality refuses to cooperate.
“Jaime Parker.”
Parker. The sound landed under my sternum like a slow punch.
Rachel’s last name.
Rachel—the girl my son, William, loved with a field‑clearing, future‑rearranging intensity at seventeen. Rachel, who vanished after he died and stayed gone no matter how many investigators I hired or stones I turned with surgical precision. I stripped my gown and gloves, pulled a blazer over scrubs, and left the OR with an image of composure wrapped around the thud of something old and wild.
Westridge Academy looked like an American postcard—brick buildings with crisp white trim, lawns groomed to within an inch of their dignity, banners whispering Latin to the sycamores.
The receptionist led me down a polished hallway. She tried not to stare.
She did. Principal Catherine Norwood stood when I entered—tall, silver hair, hands that knew how to hold a crisis until it softened.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
