When the rains may come (Science Fiction)

6. The cost of a life

Four months ago,

Clint and Brendan sat back in the pavilion for a break. They'd worked for twelve hours straight. Clint had lost count of how many dislocated joints and limbs he'd put in a cast, how many wounds he'd stitched close, how many people he'd reassured and how many people they'd lost on the sickbed.

Clint sighed in defeat. No matter how many people you save, even one death at your hands is always going to be a bigger number.

"Don't think about it, Doc." Brendan said next to him. "We still saved more lives than we lost."

Clint smiled a wry, humorless smile. The kid is a mind reader, he thought before he stopped smiling. He sighed again. "Human lives aren't just a census stat, Brendan." He said as he looked down at the football field pulsing with activity, the tortured cries of pain ringing all the way up to the empty bleachers. Clint frowned. "When someone dies while I'm operating, it's always someone's husband, father, brother, son, daughter, mother, sister, wife. A part of someone else's family. Someone who means something to someone else. When they die because of my mistake, I die a little myself."

The younger man looked at Clint. Brendan had served as a nurse for a better half of his life. In all of his experience yet, he'd never met a doctor as skillful and efficient as Clint to have this much empathy. It was almost as if empathy and skill were mutually exclusive when it came to doctors. They are supposed to play god and save lives that were on the verge of slipping away. But losing patient meant getting reminded how pointless can even skill be sometimes. Humans will only ever be humans. That simple realization is capable of sending any doctor with empathy on a spiral. Brendan let out a sharp breath as he looked away. "It means a lot to you, doesn't it, doc?" He said. "When you are operating, you aren't just a surgeon. You are trying to be a savior."

Clint grimaced. "Savior sounds like a big word. There's a lot of pride in it." He sighed. "When I'm operating, I'm just a person who is capable of helping another person. Our lives are on the same level. When they die because of my mistake, I feel like I lost a life that was as important as my own."

"But you were amazing, Doc." Brendan said. "We lost the people we lost tonight because we didn't have proper resources. You gave your one hundred percent. It's not your job to shoulder all the blame." He touched Clint's shoulder.

Clint closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tried to remember Marie's captivating eyes, Zack's cheerful smile. Before a vivid image could form in his head, the Field Coordinator's voice boomed on a bullhorn, commanding them to return back to their duties.

Clint sighed and opened his eyes. "Let's go, Brendan." He got up. "Time to work."

Three months ago,

"Clint Harris," the ration management clerk mumbled, his cheeks were sunken and there were bags under his eyes, "your personnel dependent details state that you have a wife and a twelve year old son."

"I do." Clint swallowed hard. His eyes were intent on the clerk's sunken, uninterested features. He didn't even care that the clerk had ink smeared across his chin like a fading bruise. All he thought was: They have to feed them. They have to feed them. They have to feed Marie and Zack. Feed Marie and Zack. Feed Marie and Zack...

"According to Rescue and Relief regulations, each adult dependent of personnel gets one unit of ration assigned to them. Each child dependent gets half a unit of ration assigned to them. So your dependents will receive one and a half units of rations to sustain themselves. Would you like to make any changes?"