A sterile towel gripped tightly in her hands. Her eyes widened at the sight of her chief of surgery, soaking wet, his cheek severely bruised, trailing two utterly terrified police officers behind him. "Matthew, your wrists," Sarah trailed off, taking in the raw, bleeding skin exposed under the cuffs of his jacket. "I'm fine. Scrub me in," Matthew demanded, plunging his hands under the scalding water to wash away the grime of the street and the metallic taint of Cobb's handcuffs.
"What is the status?" "The bypass machine is failing to oxygenate at a sustainable rate. The donor heart has been on ice for exactly four hours and 12 minutes. We are at the absolute limit, Matthew. If we don't start the anastomosis now, the tissue will die."
We aren't losing him," Matthew said, his voice a steady, unshakable anchor in the storm. He backed through the swinging doors into the operating room. The tension was palpable, scored by the frantic, erratic beeping of Leo's failing heart. Matthew stepped up to the table, forcing the intense humiliation and rage of the past 30 minutes into a locked box in the back of his mind. He was no longer a victim on a dark, rainy road.
He was a master surgeon. For the next 90 minutes, the O was a theater of flawless, frantic precision. Matthew's hands moved with blinding speed. He excised the failing organ, prepped the thoracic cavity, and carefully lowered the donor heart into the 14-year-old's chest. The meticulous suturing of the aorta and pulmonary artery had to be executed perfectly despite the fierce burning ache in Matthew's bruised wrists with every movement.
"Remove the cross clamp," Matthew ordered. Blood rushed into the new heart. For 10 agonizing seconds, the organ lay completely still. The silence in the room was deafening. Then a faint quiver, a flutter, and finally a strong rhythmic thump.
The monitors settled into a beautiful, steady sinus rhythm. Sarah closed her eyes, letting out a trembling breath behind her surgical mask. Matthew stepped back from the table, the immense weight of the night finally lifting from his shoulders. "Close him up, Dr. Jenkins. He's going to make it."
Leaving the O, Matthew stripped off his blood-spotted gown. As he entered the surgical waiting area, he found the room completely empty, save for three men. Commissioner Richard Hayes stood rigidly by the large window, a towering authoritative man whose face was etched with raw terror. Sitting on a plastic bench in the corner were officers Cobb and Lawson, effectively paralyzed by their own dread. Hayes turned, rushing forward to grip Matthew's shoulders.
"Dr. Ryan, my son—" "He's stable, Commissioner," Matthew said softly. "The transplant was successful. The heart is beating perfectly. He has a long road ahead, but he is going to live." Hayes choked out a heavy sob, pulling Matthew into a brief, overwhelming embrace.
"Thank God. Thank you. I was told you were severely delayed. Dispatch couldn't reach you." As Hayes pulled back, his seasoned detective instincts kicked in.