Am I going to die?

The kid asked me as he was being rolled into the operating theater.

It was a question I'd heard a thousand times before, but answering it truthfully hadn't become any easier, even after years at the hospital.

Of course not. We're going to fix you right up. I lied.

He'd been crushed in a horrific car accident,

and though we would put all of our effort into saving his life, hope was a limited resource.

The fact that he even remained conscious despite losing most of his blood was bizarre enough,

but after ten years on the job, nothing surprised me anymore.

The anesthesiologist quickly put him under while we scrubbed in for surgery.

Damien would be the surgeon, a specialist in polytrauma cases, and I'd assist.

No sooner had we opened him up before we shared a look of disappointment.

There was no chance in hell he'd survived through surgery.

Despite our lack of faith, we tried our best, but after only half an hour on the table,

his heart gave out.

How was he still alive when he arrived?

Damien asked. He pronounced the time of death and left us to clean up the mess.

I took the responsibility of cleaning the kid

up for the morgue, the task I had done countless times before. It wasn't something I particularly

enjoyed, but to me it was my final chance to pay respect to the dead. The kid couldn't have

been more than 15, and as I'd hear, he was just learning to drive.

Unexperienced, and attempting his first drive on a slippery road, he managed to steer off into a ditch.

His father died on impact, but he himself lived long enough to face surgery.

...