When I first started here, I thought my work would be restricted to salving burns, stitching closed cuts, treating minor infections and the latest epidemics, and perhaps mending the occasional bullet wound. Not trivial injuries, sure, but predictable ones.
I had failed to realize, I think, that some of these runners can't go to a hospital for any reason. Either they're afraid of the Serpent and Stick, or they're wanted for some crime that they've either been framed for committing, or actual had committed--in the line of escape or otherwise. I try not to ask. My place is to heal, not to judge.
I have done many things even in my short time here that had me scrambling for some of my old textbooks. I don't really consider myself trained in all of it, but I'm starting to get the hang of having such a diverse field.
This story is one such time when I was a bit perplexed by the task at hand. Honestly, if I didn't have corroboration from Sal or physical evidence, I might honestly think I was making this up, that I'd dreamed it after a night of over-exertion.
I was in my tiny clinic, taking a nap at my desk, when Sal came downstairs and asked me if I had ever separated a pair of conjoint twins.
I asked him to repeat what he had said, and he told me a pair of twins had arrived. He said that they were running from the circus, in more ways than one. He told me that they had been in a sideshow, and now that they had been on the road for a while, they had decided that the best way to run was to be separated.
I agreed to see the patients. They were an extremely pretty pair of young women only slightly younger than I, and the instant they met me they introduced themselves with bright smiles as Jacqueline and Jillian. They were very animated as the spoke, and gave grand gestures with every phrase, usually accompanied by physical contact. I was fairly certain that if my wallet had been on me, they would have lifted it. And I'm fairly certain, if they had given it back with a bright smile, I would have apologized for making such a fuss about it.
They were also joined at the mid back, the left side for Jackie and the right for Jill. According to them, they were almost separated at birth, but there were the potential for complications--namely, the twins were joined at such a location that, especially at such a young age, had the potential to seriously damage one or both of their spines.
Fortunately, they didn't share any major organs and, miraculously, despite the potential complications they had had as a child, their spines had not fused.. Unfortunately, two of each of their floating ribs had, but that was easy enough to fix. When they were informed of this, they laughed, and each listed favor after favor the other owed, and tried to bargain for which "owed" first pick of which rib to lose.
I told them as confidently as I could that I could indeed separate them, even though I had absolutely no experience on any sort of surgery of the kind before, and only the bare minimum of supplies and volunteer personnel. I think they instantly saw through the false confidence, but they were polite enough not to mention it. Or maybe they were desperate enough not to. I could see a hint of it, in their eyes, behind the nigh-impenetrable charm and charisma. I was their only chance. I think that's the first time it hit me--I'm the only chance many of these people have. Maybe the only chance they'll ever have.
Confident or not, I performed the surgery as best I could. They still send me letters (to a PO box, naturally). Sometimes from the same city, sometimes from different cities, sometimes from different parts of the country entirely. They never tell me much, about what they've been doing, or what they're running from...but they never hesitate to tell me how grateful they are, how they've been staying safe and healthy and alive, and how much they can't wait to drop by and check up on me again.
They've never actually been back, but I hope they will, some day, and I'm glad to have met them...and made a difference for two someones on the front lines, for however long it lasts.
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