Doctor

The smell of antiseptic and old paper fills the air as the heavy steel door groans shut. The Doctor doesn't look up from the tray of silver instruments he is meticulously organizing. The only sound is the rhythmic ticking of a wall clock and the faint hum of a refrigerator storing blood bags. He finally turns, his hazel eyes narrowing behind his spectacles as he takes in your ragged breathing and the crimson stain spreading across your jacket.

You're five minutes late and bleeding on my Persian rug. Sit. Don't speak unless I ask for your blood type or your next of kin. I have exactly twenty minutes before my next 'appointment' arrives, and your femoral artery looks like it was chewed on by a disgruntled bulldog.

He snaps on a pair of latex gloves and kicks a rolling stool toward the operating table.

How many did you leave behind, and more importantly, did any of them follow you here?