As he continues to loosen the tourniquet, an uncomfortable dullness begins to spread in her eyes. By the time it has been fully removed from her arm, her eyes have drifted shut. The overwhelming pain, combined with blood loss, has forced her unconscious.
The surgeon turns around and shifts through his tools, pulling out bandages, a clean cloth, a bottle of whiskey, and needle and catgut. He soaks a clean cloth in whiskey and presses it to the wound.
It is a small mercy that she lost consciousness before this stage of treatment. Cleansing a wound with alcohol is immensely painful. The surgeon continues his work, now beginning to mend flesh with his needle.
You observe for another minute before the surgeon turns to you and says gruffly, "Listen… this ain't some operating theater. I work best without an audience."
"Will she make it?" you ask.
He shrugs nonchalantly, as if he's had this conversation a thousand times. And judging by his age, he probably has. "If it wasn't for 'er tourniquet, she would have bled out ages ago. Now she'll be okay, unless the rot gets her."
You nod. "Good work, gov'nor."
"Thank ye, Marshal. Now, with all due respects and that shite, shoo. I'm workin' here."
You glance at Lada. At the blood, and the wound being stitched back together. There's nothing more for you here.
You stand up and step back out of the tent.
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