At two o'clock in the morning, the lights in the emergency room were blindingly white.
I had just finished sewing up the wound on the thirteenth drunk, and my fingers were still trembling, when I heard a rush of footsteps in the corridor, mixed with a man's low cry: "Doctor! Save it!"
I looked up and saw a man in a custom suit rushing in, holding a stray cat covered in blood in his arms.
The wound on the cat's leg was deep enough to see the bone, and blood was dripping down his white shirt, but he didn't care, just stared at me and shouted: "Hurry! It's dying!"
My heart thumped, and I picked up the medical record sheet habitually. This is my third month as an intern at the First Hospital of the City. The most skillful thing I do every day is writing medical records.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of the wound first." I motioned him to put the cat on the operating table and quickly checked the situation. "The fracture and tear need to be debrided and sutured immediately."
The man stood nearby, frowning, staring at me unblinkingly, as if I was going to pronounce this cat to death in the next second.
To be honest, I am used to seeing people dying in the emergency room, but this is the first time I have seen someone be so anxious for a stray cat.
