Page 25 of Broken Dream (Steel Legends #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jason

I don’t go back to see Angie again.

Even though I know we need to talk, I can’t bring myself to do it. To have the conversation that has to be.

I continue checking in with Louisa every now and then to see if they found a suitable nerve for my graft.

Finally, Thursday rolls around.

Anatomy lab.

I’ll see Angie.

And we’ll cut into the cadavers for the first time.

I get to class early and wait for the students to arrive.

I stand at the front of the room, the faint smell of formaldehyde heavy in the air, and look at the covered bodies on the lab tables.

The students begin to file in and gather around their cadavers. They pull on their gloves.

Angie doesn’t look at me.

She doesn’t look at her cadaver, either, though Tabitha has a huge smile on her face and is clearly eager to begin.

“All right,” I begin, keeping my voice steady.

“Before we start, I want to remind you again that these donors made a choice to be here, to give you the opportunity to learn. Treat them with the respect they deserve. Every incision you make today is not just about anatomy. It’s about honoring that choice. ”

I walk to the table next to Angie’s. “Your first task is to uncover the thoracic and abdominal region like we did last week. Only the area we’ll be working on today.

The rest stays covered. You’ll find that keeping the rest of the body draped helps preserve the tissue and keeps you focused.

It’s also a way to honor the modesty of the patient you’re working on. ”

Most of the students nod, and some murmur in agreement.

“Peel back the sheet slowly, folding it over itself as you did before.” I demonstrate on the cadaver where I’m standing, lifting the drape gently and folding it toward the cadaver’s feet.

The skin beneath is pale and slightly discolored.

“Good. Now, you’ll notice the midline here.” I trace my gloved finger along the linea alba, the faint ridge that runs down the abdomen. “This is your guide. It’s a natural anatomical landmark, free of major blood vessels, which makes it the ideal place for your first incision.”

I pause and look around the room to make sure every student is paying attention.

“This first cut is about precision, not depth. You’re not trying to get all the way through in one go. Start with a shallow incision and then gradually deepen it layer by layer. Think of this as peeling an onion. Skin, fascia, muscle—each layer needs your care.”

I pick up a scalpel from the tray. “Hold your scalpel like this.” I demonstrate a firm but controlled grip. “And when you’re ready, make your incision from the base of the sternum here”—I point—“to just above the pubic bone. Use smooth, even pressure, and let the blade do the work.”

I hand the scalpel to a student at the table and step back. “Take your time. There’s no rush. Remember, this is your first step into understanding the human body—not just in theory, but in reality. And that’s what being here is all about.”

I move around the room slowly, the sound of gloves snapping and metal clinking filling the air as students pick up their scalpels. Some are already diving in, too eager, while others hesitate, their hands hovering over the cadaver.

“Linda,” I say, stopping at a table. She’s gripping her scalpel like it’s a knife in a bad action movie, her knuckles surely white underneath her gloves. “Relax your grip. You’re not hacking at it. You’re guiding the blade. Loosen up, like this.” I demonstrate with a practiced motion.

Linda nods and adjusts her grip. Her partner, Jonathan, looks more comfortable.

Moving on, I hear Tabitha murmuring to Angie at their table in the front. “I just don’t want to mess this up,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You won’t,” Angie replies, her tone calm, reassuring.

Tabitha’s hands are already steady, her scalpel poised. My chest tightens as I approach their table, the pull of Angie’s presence something I wish I could ignore. I force my focus to Tabitha instead.

“Tabitha,” I say, keeping my voice light but firm. “It’s not about speed. Just take it one layer at a time. Look at how the skin stretches slightly before the blade cuts. That’s your cue to use even pressure.”

She nods, her movements jerky but improving as she follows my guidance. Angie doesn’t look up, but I feel her awareness of me, like a current passing between us. I grip the edge of the table to ground myself and clear my throat.

“Good work,” I say briskly, stepping back and turning my attention to the next group.

Elijah and Ralph are next. Elijah is already slicing, his confidence almost startling.

“Elijah, you’re a natural.” I nod as he makes smooth, even cuts.

He beams, but Ralph looks less certain.

“Ralph, it’s okay to press a little more,” I say, standing beside him. “The tissue won’t tear if you’re controlled. Let the blade do the work, not your hand.”

“I’m trying, ” he says a little sharply.

I raise an eyebrow. “Everything all right there, Ralph?”

He glares at me for just a moment. But then his eyes soften as he realizes who he’s talking to. “Sorry, Dr. Lansing. Just a little overexcited, I guess.”

I pat him gently on the shoulder. “We all react differently on the first day. Not a problem, Ralph. Just keep yourself focused.”

He nods, his eyes narrowed at me. “I will, Dr. Lansing.”

“Call me Jason, please.”

“Right. Jason.” He exhales sharply, nodding as he finally pushes down with just enough force to make a clean incision.

“There you go. Perfect,” I say. “Keep going like that.”

As I move back toward the center of the room, I glance at Angie again. She’s leaning over the cadaver, her hair tucked neatly under her surgical cap. She’s not cutting. So far she’s letting Tabitha do everything.

If it were any other student, I’d put a stop to it, tell them they both need to share the burden equally.

But I can’t. Not today. The idea of standing there, close enough to catch the faintest trace of whatever perfume lingers on Angie’s skin, feels dangerous. Unprofessional. I continue walking, keeping my distance, focusing on the others.

Next time, I’ll make sure Angie cuts.

Next time.

“Linda, how’s it going now?” I ask, circling back.

“Better,” she mutters, her voice tight with concentration.

“Good. That’s what I like to hear.”

As I circle back to Tabitha and Angie’s table, I linger despite myself.

Tabitha is focused, her brow furrowed as she carefully deepens her incision, the tension in her shoulders giving away how hard she’s concentrating.

But it’s Angie who catches my attention—or, more specifically, her stillness.

Her gloved hands hover above the cadaver, the scalpel poised but unmoving, as though the blade weighs a hundred pounds.

“Tabitha,” I say, my voice steady, “you’re doing well. Just follow the natural line. Smooth, even strokes.”

Tabitha nods, offering a quiet, “Thank you.”

Angie still hasn’t said a word, her body stiff, her face pale. She’s staring down at the incision, not with curiosity or focus, but with something else—something closer to dread.

This time I have to say something.

I force myself to keep my tone neutral, professional. “Angie, is everything all right?”

She nods quickly, but it’s unconvincing. “Yes, I’m fine,” she says, her voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

I know she’s lying.

The room is alive with the sound of scalpels slicing through preserved flesh, whispered conversations, and the occasional clink of instruments being set down. But at this table, there’s a heaviness, a tension that feels like it’s drawing my attention no matter how much I want to ignore it.

“Tabitha,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “you’re doing great. Time for a break.”

She widens her eyes but then puts down her scalpel, clearly okay with stepping away for a minute.

I step around the table, moving to Angie’s side. I shouldn’t. I should let her figure it out on her own or pair her up with someone else later. But something in me—something I don’t want to name—won’t let me walk away.

“Angie,” I murmur. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Her shoulders tighten, and for a moment, I think she won’t answer. But then she exhales, her breath shaky. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she says, her words rushing out in a quiet, desperate tumble. “I thought I could, but… I just… I don’t want to cut into someone.”

I nod slowly. “I know this is hard, especially if you intend for your focus to be psychiatry. But this part of your training isn’t just about learning anatomy.

It’s about understanding the body as a whole, even if your work someday focuses on the mind.

You don’t have to like it, but it’s important. ”

She swallows hard, her gaze fixed on the untouched scalpel in her hand. “I understand that,” she says, barely above a whisper. “But it feels…wrong. Like I’m disrespecting them.”

Her words hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. “You’re not disrespecting them, Angie. This person chose to donate their body to help you learn. To help you become the kind of doctor who saves lives. What you’re doing here honors that choice.”

It’s nothing I haven’t said before. She knows that as well as I do. I don’t expect my words to change her attitude now if they haven’t already.

She doesn’t respond right away, her jaw tight as she stares down at the cadaver. I want to tell her she can step back, let Tabitha take the lead—but that won’t help her. She needs to find her own way through this.

“Start small,” I say gently. “One shallow cut. You don’t have to rush or go deep. Just get a feel for it. You might surprise yourself.”

She glances up at me again, and there’s a flicker of trust in her eyes now.

She nods, her movements hesitant, but she sets the blade against the cadaver’s pale skin.

Her hand trembles slightly as she presses down, the scalpel gliding over the surface.

It’s a small cut, almost tentative, but it’s a start.

“There you go,” I say quietly. “That’s all it takes. One step at a time.”

I step back to give her space. Tabitha shoots me a quick look as she returns, confused but not questioning. Angie keeps her focus on her work, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her hand steadies with each pass of the blade.

I exhale, moving to the next table, but my thoughts linger. Angie is stronger than she thinks. I just hope I can keep my focus where it belongs—on teaching her, not on the way she makes my chest tighten every time I’m near.

But all I can think about is how I felt inside her, how I want to feel it again.