The Needle in the Dark
The scalpel slipped. Jack Moretti felt it in his wrist—a micro-tremor, the kind that comes from too much coffee and not enough sleep. The incision on the kid's ribs was clean enough, but the depth was off by a millimeter. In the world Jack operated in, a millimeter was the difference between walking away and being carried out in a body bag. "Bandage him up," Jack said to the kid sitting on the...
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