Pixie (1)

On the way home from work.

As I left the main building lobby and passed through the automatic doors, the brutally hot mid-August night air rushed deep into my lungs.

Ssssh—

Haa—

Even the air feels clear.

Actually, it's just humid.

Two weeks on thoracic surgery rotation.

It was a long time if you looked at it one way and a short time if you looked at it another, but in practice it felt like the dense fatigue of having rolled around in the ER for half a year was pressing down on my shoulders.

I'm tired.

Memories of opening and closing the chests of countless patients, getting soaked in blood, and teetering on the border between life and death flashed by like a panorama...