I recognized the freckles and the warm brown eyes. High school came rushing back in a flood.
“Emily?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
She blinked, stunned, then squinted.
“Mark? From Lincoln High?”
The man — Jason, as I would learn — looked between us. “You two know each other?”
“We… went to school together,” I said quickly, then switched back into doctor mode. “I was your son’s surgeon.”
Emily’s breath hitched, and she grabbed my arm like it was the only solid thing in the room.
“Is he… is he going to make it?”
I gave her the rundown in precise, clinical language. But I was watching her the whole time — how her face twisted when I said “tear in his aorta,” how her hands covered her mouth when I mentioned a likely scar.
When I told her he was stable, she crumpled into Jason’s arms, sobbing with relief.
