Page 43 of The Secretary Volume II (The After Hours #2)

42

Lena

T he nurse clips a pulse oximeter to my finger. Wraps a cuff around my arm. My heart rate shows up on a screen I can’t stop watching.

A man enters. Says he’s an anesthetist.

“Usually it’s just local and a little nitrous,” he says. “But for you? We’re rolling out the red carpet.”

He inserts the IV. My arm goes cold.

“This’ll make you a little more comfortable.”

The sedation hits fast. Too fast. My head gets heavy. My jaw loosens. My limbs start to float, but not in a good way.

I’m aware. I just can’t move.

Another nurse enters. Then the periodontist. She’s young, smiling.

She tilts my head back without asking. “Let’s have a look.”

“Okay,” she nods. “You can let them in.”

Next thing I know, a swarm of dental students piles in—wide-eyed, lip-glossed, and vibrating with the kind of excitement usually reserved for rollercoasters or cadaver day.

They crowd around the chair like it’s an exhibit. One’s already wearing gloves. Another starts adjusting the light. One of them takes notes like he’s at a cooking class.

This feels like a bad dream. A nightmare.

Maybe I am sedated and this is just a bad trip. I’ve heard of that happening.

But no, the clamp in my mouth is real.

The suction tube is real.

And they’re looking at me like I’m not.

The chair reclines with a mechanical whirr. The light above me clicks on. It’s bright enough to hurt.

“We’re going to take tissue from the roof of her mouth and graft it along the lower gumline,” the doctor says like I’m not here. “She’ll feel a little tugging. Nothing sharp.”

She says it like I’ve done this before. Like I had a choice.

The metal clamp forces my mouth open. The sound of it clicking into place echoes inside my skull.

Then she lifts the gauze on the tray. Shows off her tools. Describes each one. Painfully slowly.

Scalpel. Periosteal elevator. Needle driver. Bone rasp. Scissors.

She goes back for the scalpel.

The pain is instant and total—hot, electric, sharp. A blade dragging across the roof of my mouth like it’s skinning something alive.

My whole body tries to jerk, but nothing moves. My scream stays buried under the suction tube in my cheek.

“See the resistance here?” the doctor says. “That’s good. Healthy tissue.”

“You’re going to feel some pressure,” she says.

It’s not pressure.

It’s fire.

A student leans in and touches the exposed site with something metal. “Like this?”

“Perfect,” the doctor says.

He cuts. Not confidently. Not cleanly.

Pain shoots through my jaw and up behind my eyes. I taste blood, disinfectant—nothing else.

Another student takes over. This one pulls too hard. I feel the stitch snap before it’s tied. My gums throb like they’re being peeled away from my skull.

“Careful,” someone says. “Try not to torque the tissue.”

I try to move and can’t. I try to make noise, but nothing happens. I need to let them know I can feel everything, but my throat doesn’t work. I make a sound—something like a whimper—but the suction tube in my cheek swallows it whole.

I try to raise my right hand like they told me to. I think I’m lifting it, but everything feels so heavy, and if I am, no one pays attention.

The nurse looks down. Finally.

“I think we need to up the nitrous,” she says softly. “Seems like she’s in pain.”

A pause.

“Sometimes they just look like that,” the doctor replies.

She doesn’t sound concerned. Just busy.

I feel another cut—this one deeper. Then pressure. Then a long, dragging pull.

“Nice,” says the student with the needle. “That suture held.”

“You’re doing great,” someone says—not to me, of course. To him.

I feel every single knot. Every tug. Every burn of thread against raw flesh.

A new student steps up. My mouth is still open. My jaw is locked. My entire face feels like it’s being unstitched and put back together by amateurs.

The suction keeps going. So does the stitching.

So does the pain.

Blood fills my mouth but is suctioned away before I can taste it. But not all of it.

A nurse snaps off her gloves and immediately puts on a new pair. “She’s not clotting!”

“I hate it when this happens,” the doctor says.

She doesn’t sound as worried as she should be.

My eyes are open.

I see everything.

I feel a thread pass through my gumline. Something tugs. Another stitch. Then another.

The doctor presses a gauze square into the wound and holds it there, like she’s putting a stamp on a letter.

The light goes whiter. The room narrows. I feel myself slipping, but I don’t go under.

She hums while she works. Something bouncy, like a children’s song.

I try again to move. Try to make noise.

Nothing.

“You said nitrous,” I want to scream. “You said local.”

But the suction tube in my cheek pulls the thought away.

The doctor lifts another tool. “She feels some tugging,” she says. “But not pain.”

I feel everything.

One of the students leans closer. “Is it supposed to be that red?”

“She’s reacting beautifully,” the doctor chirps. “Mark that.”

They stitch me like they’re sewing a hem. Tight and efficient. One student asks about suture tension. Another films it on a tablet.

“You’ve got this,” someone says—again, not to me, but to the student with his fingers in my mouth. “Just hang in there.”

I try to swallow. Can’t.

Try to blink. Too slow.

The gloves come off. The tray clears.

“Recovery headphones, please,” the doctor says.

A pair of over-ear headphones clicks into place.

Ocean sounds. Wind. A faint chime.

It’s supposed to be calming.

It’s not.

The waves keep crashing. I hope they drown me.

They don’t.

When she’s done, I can’t close my mouth all the way.

She peels off her gloves. Drops them into the bin like she’s finished organizing her sock drawer.

“You did great,” she says. “Colonoscopy’s next.”

She smiles like she’s joking, but I can’t be sure.