— Stay still, — she said, her voice exhausted but firm. — I’m just finishing the last of the sutures.
She was grateful he had been unconscious for the worst of it. The man winced, his voice raspy:
— What are you using? A sewing kit? This hurts like hell.
Eleanor managed a small smile:
— It’s medical grade, I promise. The worst is over. Now we just have to manage the fever and wait for the medevac.
She stayed by his side all morning. Around noon, a helicopter finally managed to land in a nearby clearing. An flight medic rushed in, checked the man’s vitals, and looked at the surgical work on the kitchen table. He looked at Eleanor, stunned:
— Who did this?
— I did. His BP was 90/60 most of the night, but it’s stabilized. I had to repair a nick in the artery. I’ve written down the dosages of the sedatives I gave him.
The medic read her notes, his eyebrows shooting up:
— You did a vascular repair… on a kitchen table?
Eleanor shrugged:
— I didn’t have an OR available.
The medic shook his head in disbelief as they loaded the pilot onto a stretcher. He started to say something, then just nodded with profound respect. Later, at the hospital, the trauma surgeon approached the pilot:
— Sir, I don’t know who that woman in the woods is, but she saved your life. That surgery was textbook perfect under impossible conditions.
The pilot looked up from his bed:
