Elena Rostova watched the reflection in the curved head-mirror with clinical focus.
In the delayed glass, the dead grey hands of the burn-ward orderly hovered three inches from the nape of her neck.
The cold radiating from the lead apron felt like winter river water pressing through her scrub tunic.
“Julian!” Elena shouted over the screaming sixty-hertz siren. “Four seconds to the B2 boundary!”
“I’m on the first bolt!” Julian yelled from the floor.
Julian was on his knees on the diamond-plate deck.
He wedged the insulated handle of the #3 Bard-Parker scalpel under the frozen latch clip to pop the lock-washer. Then he jammed the flat square edge of his brass Senior Clerk stamp into the slot of the first thumbscrew.
“Brace the kickplate with your boot, Elena!” Julian called out. “I need counter-pressure on the hinge!”
