Page 11 of Theta

His praise lights a strange, uncomfortable, and sort of squirmy fire in my gut. "Thank you, Killy."

The rocking lulls us both into a drowse.

"Story?"

"Mmm."

"Is it fucked up, do you think, that we were brought up the way we were? Trained to do things we were? Like, we did a lot of stuff that is definitely not normal for kids to do."

I let out a long breath. "I mean, yeah, objectively, I suppose it is kind of fucked up. But then, how could it not be? What were they supposed to do? History proved that their families were going to be dragged into things at some point. And look—here we are. And guess what? We know what to do: bide our time, choose our moment, and use the skills we’ve worked so hard to develop. Obviously I'm still scared out of my mind because I know all too well that no matter how well trained you are, things can happen. Plain old bad luck is real. Some goon who barely knows how to hold a gun can get off a lucky shot. You can catch a ricochet. But I also know that of anyone in the world, you, me, Bryn, and Cal can take care of ourselves in a situation like this, and our parents know it because they raised us that way." I shrug and shake my head, even though I know he can't see the gestures. "I don't think we have a very good sense of what normal even means, though, Killy. I certainly don't. I was involved in a mass shooting at five and watched my parents get killed, and then I watched my adoptive mother get kidnapped, and then I watched a man I'd just met kill a bad guy with a knife. I… I saw a lot of unpleasant things in that whole experience. There's no normal after that, Killy. How can there be?"

He leans into me, hard shoulder nudging mine. "So it's fucked up, but for a good reason?"

I can't help laughing. "Yeah, basically." I yawn. "God, I'm tired."

"You'd think after being drugged unconscious for however many hours, you wouldn't be," Killian says.

"You'd think, but drug-induced unconsciousness is not the same as natural sleep. You don’t and can't enter the various stages of sleep, so it's not restful. Or not as restful, at least. It's…well, it's kind of complicated, honestly, because there are a lot of different drugs that induce different kinds and levels of unconsciousness in different ways. But as the chief anesthesiologist told me when I was doing my rotation in that department, anyone can administer anesthesia to a patient. It's the whole keeping them alive afterward part that's tricky. The tiniest bit too much and you can stop their heart or shut their brain off. Too little and they wake up mid-surgery, or worse, only partially wake up."

"Wait, what?"

“Oh yeah. It happens to redheads a lot, actually."

Killian is quiet—I can almost hear him blinking his shock. "Redheads?"

"Oh yeah. True redheads have a gene that makes them resistant to drugs. They have naturally higher tolerances. It happens more with twilight anesthesia. I mean, not a lot, but it happens. The patient's brain will wake up enough that they're conscious and feeling everything but not conscious enough to be able to alert the doctors."

"Jesus fucking Christ, what a nightmare that would be."

“Yeah. That's why anesthesiologists are among the highest-paid doctors in the hospital, after the specialists."

"Specialists?"

"Neuro, thoracic, and orthopedic—those docs with all the extra letters after their names. Those guys make the most. But anesthesiologists are paid the most of any non-specialist, non-surgical doctors because of how difficult it is to do the job well and correctly."

"Did any other field interest you, or was it always the E-R?”

I hum, considering. "I thought about surgery, to be honest. I've got the hands for it. I also thought about the ICU. But in the end, it was always emergency medicine. I know how this is going to sound, but it's kind of an adrenaline thing. The pace, the challenge, the variety of cases. Unless you're in medicine, that can sound cold. Like, we're talking about the worst days of people's lives. If you're a patient in a hospital for any reason, you’re having a bad day. So, talking about pace or variety or the challenge or how I need the adrenaline rush? Objectively, it can sound shitty. But it's a job, at the end of the day. There has to be a sense of satisfaction. Not…enjoyment, maybe. That's not the right word. I don't enjoy it, like you enjoy a steak or a movie or a good hard orgasm." I go red-faced, not that he can tell. "I, um. Yeah. Forget I said that last part."

"I can comprehend what you mean,” he says, mercifully ignoring the bit about orgasms. “Sort of like how you can appreciate an excellent, well-made movie about a difficult subject but not necessarily enjoy it."

"Exactly," I say. “Like…Schindler’s List. I’m glad you get it. Not everyone does."

"No? Seems kind of…obvious. I dunno. I mean, I’m clearly not a doctor or nurse like you, but I can comprehend what you mean. You've had people not get that?"

I'm not sure I like the direction of this conversation— it's heading into awkward territory. "I mean, yeah."

"I don't understand how you don't understand."

"I don't either. But then, he turned out to be a world-class jackass, so maybe it was just him."

"Ah."

I turn my face toward him. "Ah? What does that mean, ah?"

"Just…ah. Like, ahhh, that kind of guy."

"What kind of guy would that be, Killian?" I ask, my tone dry and sharp. "I did date him for nearly two years."