Page 16 of Break For Me
"There’s a cot in the back room," Garrett says.
We each take a side. I hook my arms under his left armpit. Garrett takes the right.
We lift. The weight is staggering. He feels like he’s made of lead instead of flesh.
My arms shake. My grip slips on the sweat-soaked cotton of his shirt. I have to readjust, pressing my forearm against his ribs to get leverage.
He’s a monolith. His ribs are enormous, the musculature so thick I can barely feel the cage underneath.
We drag him. His boots scrape the floorboards. His head lolls against my shoulder.
We hoist him onto the military cot. The aluminum frame groans. The canvas bows, the legs bending outward under his mass.
He lies there. Unconscious. A mountain of a man.
I need to undress him to find the rest of the damage.
I get the trauma shears. I start at the collar of his henley and cut downward.
The fabric parts with a soft tearing sound. I peel it back like a split hide.
Underneath, the man is a topographic map of a life I don't want to understand.
I’ve operated on hundreds of soldiers, but I have never seen a body that carries its history so completely on its surface.
The tattoos are the first thing I see. A faded Madonna on his left pec, her face rendered in blue-black ink. Her hands are pressed in prayer over his heart.
The Falcone crest is on his right forearm. A date in Roman numerals is etched on his left inner wrist, right over the artery.
Latin words in Gothic script cover his right shoulder. It’s prison work—the lines are uneven, the shading inconsistent. It was applied with improvised needles and no regard for the rules.
Beneath the ink are the scars.
A puckered divot on his right chest—an old gunshot wound that healed without a surgeon’s touch. A long, thin surgical line across his lower belly.
And on his left flank, a cluster of small, round burns.
Cigarette marks. Hypertrophic skin, raised and shiny.
The pattern is deliberate. Someone used him as a ledger for their cruelty.
I cut the shirt free and pull it from under him. His torso is a wall of muscle.
It isn't an aesthetic build. It’s functional. This body was engineered to absorb impact and deliver it back.
I remove the dressing from his forearm. The slash is still weeping.
I clean it with betadine. I debride the edges where the wood grit from the truck has settled.
The laceration is fifteen centimeters long. No major vessel involvement. The brachial artery is intact, which is the only reason his heart is still beating.
I suture it. 4-0 nylon.
Each bite of the needle through his skin requires more force than I’m used to. His dermis is thick and fibrous. It’s like sewing through boot leather.
I watch the wound edges come together. The ragged line resolves into a neat seam.
His hand is next.
