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It's 1844 in Boston and the most renowned surgeon in America is dreading going to work.

Everything's ready, doctor. Thank you. I'll be right there.

After a minute of staring into space,

Dr. John Warren, aged 66, rises wearily

and mounts the stairs for the top floor of Massachusetts General Hospital.

On each step, he feels the grit of sand and sawdust crunching underfoot.

As he opens the door to the operating theater, he's blinded by sunshine streaming through the windows.

He tells visitors that they operate on the top floor for the abundance of light there.

It's only half true. The fact is that the screams of

patience are less audible to everyone on the floors below. Inside the

operating theater is packed with students and they rise when he enters.

Mass General is a teaching hospital and when the top surgeon in America operates there's

never an empty seat. Then why do I feel like such a fraud?" Warren things to himself.

Good morning. Be seated please. As everyone sits, he turns to the patient on the bed, a freckled red-haired Irishman named Nicholas.

His leg was crushed last week when a skittish draft horse overturned a cart on the cobblestone

street. The wound is turning purplish now and Warren has to

amputate to save his life. Nicholas is sweating heavily already. His shirt is

soaked and his face is slick and shiny.

...