I’m in the middle of a field hospital, operating. A young pup, his leg blown off, lies on the table, prepped for amputation.
“Elena, we’re low on anesthetic—just a small dose of sedative left,” my assistant says.
The pup’s wails echo, his pain unbearable. His sister, her own arm mangled and missing below the elbow, sits beside him, trying to soothe him. She’s next for surgery.
“Use it on him,” I order, disinfecting my tools with quick, practiced movements. I lean down, explaining the situation to them, instructing my assistant and the girl to hold him steady.
Then I start cutting.
The moment the saw bites into bone, his screams pierce the air. His body jerks, but they pin him down. Blood splatters my temple, my mask, but my hands stay steady, my breathing even.
That day, I treat coun
